In the Long Run

Marathon Pics

2008-11-09T20:16:00.004-07:00

"No You Don't, Girlfriend!"

2008-11-04T21:31:00.003-07:00

In a current television commercial, a jogger rifles through a woman’s trash, takes some documents, steals the woman’s identity, and ruins her life. I take great umbrage at this commercial. Runners are not like that! Most of them are hard-working, disciplined, honest people of scrupulous character.

My recent marathon gave me many examples of the kind of people runners are. Before the race, I enjoyed reading and responding to comments on a message board by the participants. The runners shared with each other their accounts of miles and miles of rigorous and disciplined training. Though most were strangers to each other, they sympathized with those suffering ailments and training problems, advised each other, and offered help and encouragement, with humor, respect, and acceptance.

The marathon race director, David, and his wife Rhonda, are also good examples of the kind of people most runners are. They put in many long hours to make the race a success. Before the event, David matched runners who had to drop out of the race with runners who were waiting to get in, allowing the droppees to recover their race entrance fees. He wrote emails with tips and information to help the runners do well, and spent hours on logistical arrangements. Rhonda included homemade cookies in all the race packets, and organized all the race volunteers. She was very nice and grateful to my Key Limey, when he agreed to help at an aid station.

The event itself provides more evidence. Immediately before the marathon, the participants converged in small groups at the start line, making new friends with smiles, and excited chatter. During the race, people complimented each other as they passed by. After the race, runners who had discarded clothing and articles along the race course were sure to find them safely picked up and returned to the finish, where they were laid out on a grassy area in plain view, for pickup. No one would dream of taking gear belonging to someone else, no matter how valuable.

For me, the character of a runner is summed up in the brief, but telling, incident I experienced in the last half mile of the race. I was exhausted, and hurting from a cramp in my left calf. The finish line seemed interminably far away, and I wanted to just walk. I slowed down, and was barely plodding along when a stranger, Paula, and her husband, came up behind me.

“No, you don’t, girlfriend!” she exclaimed. “You can’t walk! Run with us!” she encouraged. “Come on!” she called, as I stared at her in disbelief. But I obeyed, and started running again. I was only able to keep up their relatively brisk pace for less than a minute, but I was running. I marveled at the benevolent attitude of this woman. Her only concern was to keep me running, rather than to beat me. Paula finished a few seconds ahead of me, and won her age division. I placed first in my age division too, although I am not much older than Paula. For all Paula knew in that last half mile, I could have been her main competition. Yet she saw a runner in need, and she was willing to help. I won’t forget her!

So, who can imagine a true runner, someone like Paula, stealing someone’s identity? Bad commercial! Why would a runner need to do that? Runners already have their own very strong identities.

I Run as Fast as a Baby Bunny

2008-10-05T17:02:00.003-07:00

A few days ago as I was running in an alley alongside a ravine, I spotted something in the road ahead. Although its camouflage coloring blended in extremely well with the gravel and dirt road, I could still make out a small rabbit crouching very low and still, and looking straight at me. He did not flinch as I ran closer and closer. When I was directly alongside the animal, he suddenly turned and scampered forward in the same direction as I was going. We ran together, side by side, for about 25 feet before the scared rabbit veered off to the side, and down a hill.

“Great!” I laughed to myself. “I run as fast as a baby bunny!” I had even more in common with the baby bunny. Even as he was skittish and nervous, so was I, as I thought about competing in my approaching marathon.

Yesterday I completed my longest training run before the marathon—22 miles. As recommended by the training plan I follow, I ran much more slowly than I do on my weekday runs, supposedly teaching my muscles to conserve fuel, and generate glycogen. So there were no footraces with rabbits yesterday, and the deer I saw left me in the dust.

I’m still skittish and nervous about the marathon, and whether my training has been effective. In three weeks, I'll know the answer. Can I run as fast as a baby bunny for not just 25 feet, but for 26.2 miles?

Just Blanks

2008-09-21T20:45:00.002-07:00

My friend Chuck opened the cardboard box and showed me his starter’s gun. “Just hold it in the air away from your ear when you fire.” When he sensed my reluctance, he grinned and added, “They’re just blanks!”

A few days before, Chuck had offered the use of his gun to start the YMCA race that I had organized. It had sounded like a good idea, but now looking at the gun, I had second thoughts. It was really quite small, but somehow quite menacing.

Chuck couldn’t start the race himself because he needed to be in place as a traffic guard a half mile into the race route. I held the weapon gingerly, and shivered. I was not going to shoot that thing.

I abdicated my job to another race volunteer, Susan, who said, “Oh sure! No problem!” At the start line, I yelled in the megaphone, “Runners, take your marks! Get set!” And Susan fired.

With squeals and shouts, the runners took off. I carefully returned the gun to its box and stowed it out of sight and reach of mischievous hands.

Later I related my gun story to my son. This son has taken quite an interest in guns, despite never having any exposure to them as a child. “You’ve never shot a gun, Mom?” He seemed incredulous, although I don’t know why. “I’ll help you do it. Guns are perfectly safe when you handle them properly.”

I doubt I’ll ever take a shot. Shooting guns, even shooting blanks, kind of scares me.

Countdown

2008-09-14T21:03:00.002-07:00

I have vowed that this marathon, number 9, will be my last. Of course I've said that before. Tonight I looked at the marathon website and found the entrants' list. I am the only person entered from my state, and only a handful of participants reside west of the Mississippi. There are only five women in my age category. This is a very small marathon, but I hope to use it to finish my career in style.

Six weeks to go, and my piriformis syndrome is still a continual pain. After posting about my condition on the marathon message board, I received punny comments from fellow runners about hitting rock "bottom" and advice to put it "behind" me. To them I answer, "Tush-e!"

And I keep running.

O"blog"ation

2008-08-31T16:07:00.003-07:00

I had three blog titles and ideas floating around in my head in the shower this morning. As I sighed and wondered when I would fit composing today’s blog into my schedule, I again experienced a feeling I’ve had lately. A feeling of stress and overextension. A feeling that my blog has become an o“blog”ation, rather than recreation.

When did this happen? When did writing become another item on my lengthy “To Do” list instead of a creative escape from it? What used to bring a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment now often seems to be a forced habit requiring much effort and discipline. I feel sad about that.

So today I won’t be writing “Back Off Gustav”, a piece about nature’s ability to turn us into hapless victims with warning, but no recourse, or “A Pain in the Butt”, a lament about my self-diagnosed case of piriformis syndrome, or “Pale in Comparison”, my thoughts on McCain’s choice of Sarah Palin as the Republican vice-presidential candidate.

Instead, I write about not writing, which, in the long run, may be as insightful as any of the other subjects.

Techno Tools

2008-08-24T15:26:00.005-07:00

A couple of days ago, I smiled, amused, as I passed the jumble in the corner on my bedroom floor. I was packing for a short overnight trip to attend a wedding in the southern part of the state. The techno tools that I needed during the trip were in a pile, some of them charging their all-important batteries. Included in my gear were a cell phone, a laptop computer, a video camera, a digital still camera, and my PDA, each of which I thought would be legitimately necessary on the trip.

Ironically, the bridal couple is an earthy, “granola”-type pair whose wedding was purposely planned for a Spartan, rustic mountaintop chapel because of its simple, back-to-basics, and back-to-nature atmosphere. They disdained the usual pomp and circumstance, and had even encouraged everyone to wear flip-flops to the ceremony.

Enter Cyppy with her techno treasure. Perhaps I sullied the pristine environment when I pulled out my gadgets, but I think the happy couple will enjoy the video and pictures that technology provided. And in my defense, they had asked for my services.

With the use of an additional technological tool, an inverter, I was able to recharge my devices and use several of them in the car during the ten hours of driving to and from the wedding. I acknowledge the additional irony that these tools that supposedly simplify our lives also make our lives more complicated and complex. Some may call it progress, and some may call it perversion, but I like my gadgets, and plan to keep on charging and using them.

Lil Pup

2008-08-17T15:50:00.008-07:00

I had just passed the four-mile mark of my long run when I felt raindrops on my arm. I grimaced and hoped the rain remained a sprinkle because I had eleven more miles to go.

Suddenly, without warning, something furry whacked me on my left leg and I nearly fell. Startled, but still running, I looked down and saw nothing. Creepy, I thought. What kind of animal was that? Whomp! Something was attacking my heels, and this time I was forced to stop running to avoid a tumble.

The culprit was a frisky little puppy who had appeared out of nowhere, and now wanted to play. “Go home!” I ordered. He just cocked his head and looked at me expectantly. “Go!” I shouted, and pointed back in the direction where I thought his home must be.

The rain was coming down more forcefully now. I was just on the edge of town in a field overgrown with weeds, and had no desire to run in a deluge with a dog nipping at my heels. I walked, because I couldn’t run with the dog jumping up on me, about a block to a gas station and convenience store to wait out the storm.

Lil Pup followed me happily right up to the store, and then shook himself, spraying dog water over me. “Thanks,” I muttered in aggravation, cold and wet, and exasperated with the delay in my run. I’m not a big dog fan, but I could see that this little guy, with his pug nose and curly tail, was what many people would gush over and call “adorable.”

“I’m not responsible for you,” I scolded, “so scat!” I pointed out in the rain, and Lil Pup obediently darted out in the downpour a few yards, then ran right back up to me, where I cowered under the overhang of the store roof. OK, he was cute. And he was just a defenseless puppy, but what was I supposed to do about it? I fumed as I waited, and it continued to rain.

Lil Pup tried to befriend all of the customers filling up with gas. Most of them petted him, and spoke friendly, gushy puppy talk to him, but all of them drove away, sometimes with the dog chasing dangerously after their cars. It was still raining cats, and …dogs, and I was afraid Lil Pup was going to get hit by a car in the rain. He wore a collar, but had no identification tags.

Grrrrrr. I grumbled to myself, but I realized I was starting to feel responsible for the animal. After all, he had followed me several blocks from his home, and probably had no idea how to get back. Poor bedraggled little critter.

I went into the Red Eagle convenience store, and asked the clerks to call the Animal Shelter. Lil Pup managed to sneak in the door with an entering customer, and I smiled indulgently as the dog scurried down the snack aisle before the clerk caught him and wrestled him outside. The clerk seemed quite enchanted with the dog, and willing to attend to him until the animal control officer arrived.

The rain let up, and I decided to continue on my run. I left the store, with one last protective glance at Lil Pup. He was contentedly sniffing around the dumpster at the side of the store. With what I only can call unexpected, gushy puppy love, I honestly hoped he would safely make his way home to a happy and more vigilant owner.

It's the Olympics!

2008-08-10T18:47:00.004-07:00

Every four years I feel a sense of urgency, as well as an intense obligation to watch hours and hours of television in a brief two-week period of time.

It’s the Olympics.

At any other time would I watch women’s double sculls or fencing? I mean, I don’t know the difference between a feint and a parry, or a foil and an epee.

But I watch, because it’s the Olympics.

It’s strange, but suddenly a water polo match between Montenegro and Hungary becomes engrossing. My daughter had to clarify for me the location of Monte Negro, because I wasn’t exactly sure where it even was, but I was still cheering for its team.

I watched dressage (pronounced dress-ahhzh) intently, although it just seemed to be a guy in a top hat walking, trotting and cantering about in circles on a horse with its mane tied in knots.

It’s Olympic dressage, and therefore I watch.

Trap Shooting?! Are you joking? No, I watched a man coolly win the gold medal after missing only 5 out of 150 shots. It’s even kind of artsy. When the competitor hits and breaks the clay target, a hot pink smoky cloud appears in the air.

I was glued to the tube for more mainstream events like swimming, beach volleyball, diving, soccer, and gymnastics. And the Olympics just started two days ago.

There’s something special about these competitions, the pinnacle of athletics, that draws me to obsessively watch the television coverage. The athletes’ grit and determination are inspiring. Their focus is remarkable. Their ability, talent, and discipline leave me in respectful awe and admiration.

It’s the Olympics.

Kaleidoscope

2008-08-03T20:10:00.001-07:00

In the last ten days I’ve solemnly attended two funerals and celebrated a wedding. I’ve romped on the floor with my 17-month old granddaughter, and I’ve marveled at the ultrasound pictures of grandbaby #2. These seemingly disparate experiences have meshed together like the pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope, and have caused me to reflect on life’s fleeting, treasured moments.

Like the poet, I believe that we have come from a divine existence to which we will return. Our lives here are but a moment, and there is much to learn and to accomplish. As I watched The Little Princess learn and acquire new skills in the few short days she was here for a visit, I was amazed and inspired by her. She is curious and inquisitive, determined and eager. I wonder, and also worry, what the future holds for her.

Will I be there to celebrate on her wedding day? Will she send ultrasound pictures of her unborn child to her father, my son? Will she solemnly mourn at a funeral after an unexpected and tragic death? Will she enjoy the playground equipment at the park with her granddaughter?

Most of us have similar pieces of glass in our lives’ kaleidoscopes which represent hallmark events. Births, weddings, and deaths occur in all our lives, but in different patterns and designs. It is comforting to know that the colorful mosaics of our lives, similar, but yet unique for each of us, do not fall haphazardly into place, but are intricate pieces of a divine plan.

Senior Mettle

2008-07-27T17:24:00.008-07:00

I was shocked to hear that my pickleball doubles partner was in the hospital. To be honest, once I heard that her medical emergency would only be a temporary condition, my relief turned to concern of how her sidelining condition affected me. Cheryl would not be able to be my partner in the state Senior Olympics Games.

OK, I consoled myself, I still have singles and mixed doubles. And imagine how she feels. She can’t play at all. Then I learned that there would be no bracket in my age division for singles, because Cheryl and I had been the only entrants, and also that I would miss the mixed doubles event because it conflicted with a funeral I wanted to attend. Now I did know how Cheryl felt. I was highly disappointed.

The pickleball venue for the Senior Olympics was the YMCA where I work, and T.J., a co-worker, was in charge of the event. He came up to me on the morning of the pickleball events, and said, “I put you in the women’s doubles bracket anyway. Better find yourself a partner.” “But who?” I questioned desperately. We both saw Pat, an athletic woman, going into an office down the hall. Bingo!

Pat is 60, but looks mid-40’s, and is a fierce racquetball player. She had played a few games of pickleball about a year ago, but quit when it threw off her racquetball game. “I don’t even know the pickleball rules anymore!” she protested, when I pressed her to be my partner. I promised to give instructions as we played, and she sportingly agreed to participate.

We only played two games, and I tried to be both player and coach. “Stay back after the serve! Charge the net after your return! Let the ball bounce on both sides! Poach, poach! Now…now…overhead smash!” Pat was pretty amazing for someone with so little experience, and we managed to push one game to extra points past the usual 11. But in the end, we did not win either game.

I heard many times from various participants during the Senior Olympics, “we’re here to have fun!” And it was fun. It was also quite inspiring to see the determination and spirit of the different athletes that competed. I started a 10k race alongside a 76-year old woman who had entered over 10 events. I saw a 68-year old man coolly shoot 25 for 25 in the free throw event. And I marveled at the skill and spryness of an octogenarian table tennis player. This mettle, and the friendly sportsmanship of people like Pat, are what made my first Senior Olympics a memorable occasion.

Caution: Bollard Ahead

2008-07-22T19:34:00.002-07:00

“Caution: Bollard Ahead”. I noticed these words painted on the running path at fairly frequent intervals, but I had no idea what a bollard was. Cautious I was, though, because I was running on a path in the industrial area of an unfamiliar big city. My niece’s husband had given me good directions to the path, but he hadn’t mentioned that it was in a slightly run-down area of town.

It was about 7:30 on a Saturday morning, and the path was deserted. I felt a little uncomfortable, and wondered if I’d been naïve to assume that the running paths of most cities, whether large or small, were relatively safe. The path followed a meandering river, and through the trees I could see fences and warehouses, machinery and factories. I kept running, looking out for the bollards, whatever they were.

The first people I saw were two women on bikes. As they pedaled by, the one in the lead said, “There’s a homeless man sleeping by the pond. At the dock.” I didn’t know where the pond was, and I wasn’t sure whether I should be concerned. I continued up a hill and over the top, and saw that the trail edged a large pond, though I didn’t see a dock, or any person. I continued on the path, and around a bend, I saw the dock, and a rough camp, with an empty tent, but no man. I noted with some alarm a bike at the camp, but I decided, perhaps with a bit of judgmental arrogance, that even if a homeless man chased me down on his bike, I would be able to outrun him once he dismounted.

The path left the pond and headed into an even more remote, wooded area. It was shady and cool and pleasant. A sign read, “You may see weeds with flowers. Watch for quail, which live here year round.” I saw lots of weeds, one surprise lone patch of daisies, no quail, and no homeless man. This part of the path was flat and very comfortable for running. Very little nervousness and worry lingered, and my mind wandered to the tragedy still unfolding in my small home town miles away.

I mused on the fragility of life and the abruptness with which it sometimes ends. I wrestled to understand the divine plan which often leaves us with difficult questions, and no clear answers. I mourned the despair and loss for those left grieving. As I ran, I found, if not answers, some peace. The nearby river flowed freely, and its rushing water provided a reassuring constancy amidst change. The quiet shady woods reminded me that sometimes one must be still, and unencumbered by the world’s noise, to hear and understand answers of eternal consequence.

I ran several more miles, and toward the end of my long run, I figured out that bollards are the sturdy metal posts inserted vertically in the running path to prevent people from driving motor vehicles on it. It was especially easy to avoid all of the bollards on my run, given the advance warnings. The figurative bollards in life arrive unsuspectingly, without caution signs, though, and can very painfully knock us right off our paths. Still, there is always hope. And strength derived from our faith, our families, and our friends can help to right us, and get us running again.

At the Parade

2008-07-13T15:06:00.020-07:00

The little town in which I live is small, but has a lot of character and heart. The people who reside here are friendly, mostly conservative people, who love their country, and yes, their guns, and their religion too.

Some pictures from our recent rodeo parade reflect the values and attitude of the people in my community, who proudly stand when the United States flag passes by, and cheer enthusiastically for floats carrying servicemen and women. We are grateful for the freedom to creatively express our political, religious, and social opinions in the simple, but very public venue of a summer parade.

This parade had all the usual features, and a couple of unique elements as well—vintage cars, horse-drawn buggies and wagons, bands, horse patrols, service organizations, Klydesdales, pooper scooper crews, clowns, police cars and fire trucks, pink piggy bankers, stumping politicians and poised beauty queens, farm implements, waving kids, a mechanical bull, and even a live camel. The parade was not elaborate, but reminded me of the reasons why I happily live in this small Western town, and why I am proud to be an American.

MapMyRun

2008-07-06T15:26:00.003-07:00

Some friends told me about a website, MapMyRun.com, which integrates Google map technology and workout information into an organizational tool for runners. Previously I had estimated the distance of parts of various runs that were along paths or trails that I could not drive and measure with my car’s odometer. This site allows me to trace my route and calculate my distances with precision, using the satellite/street hybrid view.

MapMyRun should interest other athletes as well, especially cyclists who want to plan their rides. It features some nifty tools, including workout logs and calendars, training plans, calorie counters, heart rate zone recommendations, custom reports—even a gear tracker which will tell me when I’ve accumulated the maximum recommended miles on my shoes. An obsessive runner could easily spend way too much time on this site. Of course I won’t do that. [grin]

I used the site to plan the 9-mile run that I took yesterday. The run went quite well, made all the more productive because I was able to identify the exact point of each mile I had run, and could regulate my speed accordingly. If only MapMyRun could find a way to moderate the temperature, muzzle barking dogs, pinpoint public water fountains, chastise rude drivers, and guarantee goal times, my runs would be near perfect!

Spa Night

2008-06-29T15:48:00.008-07:00

The invitation to the women’s “Spa Night” promised a night of relaxation and stress relief. I thought my friend Helen could use some “me time”, so I asked her to go with me to the activity. She had some reservations.

“Oh, I’m kind of a homebody,” she protested. “After work I like to change into my grubbies, and just kick back and watch TV by myself.”

“Come on! It will be fun!” I coaxed. “We’re going to be pampered, with foot massages and stuff like that. And listen, there will be a chocolate fountain! What woman can resist??”

Helen was still hesitant, but reluctantly agreed.

On the way to Spa Night, Helen voiced more of her concerns. “How many people will be there? Will it be crowded?” My friend feels a bit claustrophobic when in large groups of people in small rooms.

“I doubt there will be more than 15 or so women there,” I cheerfully reassured her. “And we will be dividing into small groups for different activities.”

As we walked into Spa Night, I knew we were in trouble. The odorous candles burning produced a powerful scent even in my estimation, and Helen has a near allergic sensitivity to strong perfumes and scents. She gasped a little, and her eyes got really big. “Are you OK?” I asked nervously. “Uhm…I …uhh…think, uhh, it will be all right.” Helen smiled wanly, but I could tell she was already overwhelmed.

Spa Night was very popular. Soon there were nearly 25 enthusiastic ladies pressed together in our hostess’s cozy living room, chatting noisily, and squeezing by to warmly greet each other. Helen and I stood on the outskirts of the group, and I could see in her face the panic welling up inside. She looked faint, and a bit nauseated.

I hoped that the division into small groups would provide her some comfort and relief, but she didn’t make it that far. “I can’t do this!” she whispered. I had already reached the same conclusion about her, and steered her around the crowd and out the front door without anyone even really noticing our exit.

In the car on the way home, Helen apologized profusely for making us leave, and I apologized in return for causing her stress rather than relieving it. “I really thought it would be a fun evening for us,” I lamented.

I returned to the Spa Night after taking Helen home. I had missed the chocolate facials, and the hand softening procedure, but that did not bother me much. The entertaining Wii Fit hula hoop game was delightful, and made me laugh and play like a little girl. The gentle foot massage with soothing cream was leisurely and pleasantly relaxing. For me, Spa Night delivered as promised.

I wish Helen could have stayed long enough to enjoy the evening’s culmination--the chocolate fountain. I just know that if she had been able to dip strawberries in that rich, decadent chocolate, and then delicately nibble on them, her tension and stress would have been gone. After all, what woman can resist a chocolate fountain?!

Grandma Wings

2008-06-22T19:57:00.003-07:00

Grandma wings, bingo arms, turkey drumsticks, bat wings, Relief Society arms. No matter what you call ‘em, nobody wants ‘em. Surely you know of the dreaded condition of which I write..gasp…FLABBY TRICEPS!! (insert Psycho violins here.)

Most women complain that as they age, their fat tissue migrates south and settles on the hips and thighs. My fatty tissue seems to have traveled to my upper arms. My suspicion was verified when, in a recent body composition analysis, my fitness specialist measured the fat percentage of my triceps to be more than that of my abdomen or hips. Immediately I became hyper-sensitive, and began noticing the svelte arms of women around me.

For instance, there’s Jody. She’s a former co-worker who moved away a year ago, and came back to visit this week. I saw her at the gym, tanned and healthy in her casual tank top. I spied right away her well-defined triceps and biceps. And then, as though, she KNEW…she put both hands on her hips while talking to me, and there was no denying her excellent musculature. It was all I could do to keep from staring, or from blurting out covetously, “I want your arms!”

This last weekend I helped with the registration and timing for the annual trail run held in the nearby mountains. The runners became objects of my jealousy, not only because of their excellence in competition, and their fierce determination and drive, but also because of their lean, lanky arms. I am still slightly green with envy a day later.

Do not expect a picture to accompany this post! But do expect that I will continue to do dips and triceps extensions and triceps pushups and Pilates, ad nauseam. Being a grandmother does not mean I must have mandatory Grandma wings!

Finding Joy in Life

2008-06-15T18:18:00.006-07:00

Their names are Jessica and Lizzie, and they are 5-year-old identical twins. They bounced into church before the service, and spread out their crayons and paper on the pew behind me.

“Here’s a picture for you!” Lizzie proudly gave me an abstract geometric design.

“Tell me about your drawing,” I encouraged. I’ve heard one should not insult children by saying “What is this?”, because what may not be plain to an adult is crystal clear to them.

Indeed, Lizzie seemed perplexed as to why I needed to have the picture explained to me. But she smiled indulgently, and said, “I start with an X and then I put a circle on it, and color the circle. See?!” It truly was as obvious as she said. She tossed her two blond braids, and turned back to her artwork. “I love to color!”

Her sister, not to be outdone, announced, “I’m an expert at pictures,” and offered me her creation. She needed no prompting from me to describe the “animal with no legs, just gray ears.”

The two girls energetically completed more masterpieces, and generously presented them to other people seated in the surrounding pews.

As part of the Father’s Day service, the twins sang a duet about fathers. They stood at the pulpit in their frilly, summer-flowered dresses--Jessica in pink, and Lizzie in yellow. With big, innocent eyes, and sincere love on their faces, they sang, “God gave me a dear father, so I would remember His love,” bringing a smile, and even misty eyes, to the members of the congregation. Then they bounded down from the stand, and back to their seats to give their daddy enthusiastic hugs.

Would that we all could maintain the guileless honesty and innocence of these young girls! They remind me that with a fresh, unsullied, exuberant approach to life, the simplest of life’s experiences provide us with the joy that our Father desires for us.

Lost!

2008-06-08T18:19:00.003-07:00

I looked down at my am and realized why my wrist felt bare—my running bracelet was gone! I nearly panicked. I was due to run my leg of a triathlon in just minutes, and had gone to the car to shed my warm-up shirt. On the way back to the start line, I noticed that my lucky bracelet was missing.

My colorful hand-braided bracelet has graced my wrist for dozens of races during my nearly 10 years of running. This 4.2 mile run of the triathlon was my first race in 2008, and so I had ritualistically placed it on my wrist the night before. It’s one of those superstitious, yet comforting traditions that I continue. And so, although the bracelet has virtually no material value, I was unnerved by its disappearance.

I ran back to the car to see if the bracelet were caught in the sleeve of my discarded shirt. No, it wasn’t tangled up in the shirt, or lying on the seat or floor of the car. I checked my watch. Only about two minutes before my friend Ken would come whizzing past the start on his bike, tagging me for my run. I couldn’t waste any more time looking, lest I miss his tag. I nervously and quickly walked back to the start, scanning the ground for my talisman.

And just as I reached the rest of the runners in the group at the start line, I saw it! I snatched the bracelet from the ground and slipped it back on, tightening it a bit. The other runners seemed totally unaware that such a valuable item had been lying in the dirt right under their noses! (But would my charm have worked magic for any other runner anyway?!)

Soon I was off running, feeling the familiar tickle of the bracelet’s yarn ties on my arm. I’d like to say that I was the fastest of all the 6.75 K runners, all due to the confidence and inspiration engendered by my running bracelet. Not quite! But I did run a personally satisfying and competitive race, and our team placed first in our age division. Today my lucky race bracelet is tucked safely away in my drawer with my running gear until the next event.

The Sands of Time

2008-06-01T15:40:00.006-07:00

One day last week I looked out the window to the backyard and did a double-take. There appeared to be a small baby perched on the tire swing! I soon realized it was a doll left there by the neighbor girls who come to play on our swings and in the clubhouse, which have long been unused by our children.

My gaze wandered to the nearby sandbox, and I was surprised and a little dismayed at to see how overgrown it had become with grass, weeds, and even a 4-foot tall volunteer elm tree. Thinking that The Little Princess might enjoy the sandbox on a future summer visit, I knew I had an instant Saturday morning reclamation project.

It took more time than I thought it would. I pulled up the grass and weeds fairly easily, but the elm had deep roots. I dug down about 18 inches before I got all the roots which had penetrated the black plastic liner below the sand. I decided to tug out the ripped old liner, and put new plastic down.

At first, I shoveled the sand aside, but then I found it was easier to move it by armfuls. Soon I was down on my hands and knees, pulling the sand toward me, then pushing it behind me. The sand was cool, and slightly moist. There was something soothing about the way it sifted down through my fingers. I found buried treasure--an abandoned toy car, a plastic horse, a play dish, a tennis ball, a blue turtle, a very large rock, a broken Tupperware lid (wonder if their lifetime warranty excludes “sandbox use”?) and a tent stake. (Perhaps the kids had been playing vampire slayer?!)

I looked furtively from side to side. No one was watching. I energetically made some giant piles, and then vigorously punched them down—just moving the sand to the other side of the box. (Of course.) I burrowed my hand down deep into the sand, then pulled it out in a mini earthquake—just testing for the depth of the liner. (Of course.) I took handfuls of sand and threw them to the far side of the box. (Because throwing sand in a sandbox is instinctive.) I mused momentarily on the happy hours my children had spent imaginatively excavating and building in the sandbox.

After working for nearly three hours, I had cleared the sandbox of all the debris, and moved several wheelbarrow loads of sand to my Key Limey’s garden. I surveyed my handiwork, and decided it was fit for The Little Princess, as well as the neighbor girls and their baby doll.

Then I went over to the trampoline and did 15 exhilarating seat drops in a row—just testing the springs. (Of course.)

The Good Neighbor

2008-05-25T14:45:00.000-07:00

Last October some new neighbors moved into the house next door. In a gesture of friendliness to the newcomers, I made them some Rice Krispies treats. (I went all out; I even pressed a candy corn garnish into each one.) I took them over one morning, and rang the doorbell. No answer. A couple of days later in the afternoon, I went back next door with my offering. Still no answer. I returned home with the goodies, and eventually ate them myself.

In December, in a festive spirit, I made pumpkin bread for some friends and neighbors, and included the still unknown neighbors on my list. Their loaf of bread sat on my kitchen counter, awaiting delivery until January. Then I ate it myself.

By then, I admitted that I was a bad neighbor. Sure, I waved cheerily to the husband in his yard when I drove by, and one day when I was outside picking up the mail, I sweetly asked one daughter what her name was as she rode by on her bike. My husband even told another daughter to use the basketball goal on our driveway any time she wanted. But several times when I saw the family out in their yard, or garage, I hurried on into my own house or garage and quickly closed the door. There will be more opportunities for introductions when the weather is warmer, I rationalized to myself. I’ll get acquainted with them in the spring.

At work a couple of days ago, a pleasant woman came to the front desk to sign up her daughters for summer camp. As I entered information into the computer, we talked congenially about the weather, and how the school year had flown by, and the fact that summer was almost here. I stopped mid-sentence in surprise, as I noted that the home address listed for her daughters was the house next to mine. “Are you my neighbor?!” I blurted out.

We quickly ascertained that she, indeed, did live next door to me, although neither of us would have recognized each other. I lamely apologized for not having met her earlier, and even spilled out the Rice Krispies treats and pumpkin bread stories. She laughed, and said, “Oh, you’re too cute!” She was very nice, and thanked me for letting her daughters use our basketball goal and the backyard swings. I gave her the utmost attention and courtesy as we finished the camp signups, and she left, leaving me feeling somewhat abashed.

I think I’ll pay my neighbors a visit over the holiday weekend. I’m thinking chocolate chip cookies this time, and I vow not to eat them myself.

The Cableguy Cometh

2008-05-18T17:15:00.005-07:00

Once again this last week, my internet connection was unpredictably and frustratingly cutting out on me. Just as I had attached several picture files to send to my son--no service. Right when I was making an important banking transfer—“page not found.” I couldn’t email back work-related documents to clients, shop online, or check my digital voicemail. So, during one of the brief periods when the internet connection was working, I hastily went to the IP website to get a technical support phone number. I noticed the site had an on-line support chat feature. Why not use it? I thought. At least it will be a live person.

JadeH (male or female…who knows) seemed polite and willing to help, when I typed out the problem in the chat window. He/She indicated that a technician might need to come to our home to check the cable, and it was exactly at that moment when I lost the connection again.

I was exasperated. Our digital landline phone also uses the internet cable, and was not working either. I dialed the helpline on my cell phone, but as I had predicted, I was asked to respond to an endless queue of pre-recorded prompts, instructing me to check connections and wires, then unplug the modem, router, and computer and powercycle them. The automated system featured a very sympathetic female recording who assured me that I could take as long as I wished to complete each of the tasks, before saying “Continue” to move on to the next step.

I continued, and continued, and continued. Although I had done all of these same things several times previously in the last few days, I did them again, hoping that I’d eventually complete the tech service gauntlet and get to talk to a real person. Amazingly enough, after the final step of rebooting the computer, the internet connection was working again. I was not naïve enough to think that the problem was permanently solved, so I indicated to my female recording that I still needed help. Finally, after about 15 minutes, I was able to talk to Steve, who, like JadeH and the pre-recorded prompter, seemed helpful and sympathetic. He agreed that there might be a problem with the cable and ordered a service visit for “sometime” Monday morning.

Since then I’ve struggled with my sketchy internet with a more positive attitude, knowing that there may be a solution for the problem soon. I’ve tried to post this blog four, oops, now it's five times, and I'm still sort of smiling. Make that a wan grimace. I eagerly await the cableguy. He can’t come soon enough.

Roots and Wings

2008-05-11T15:34:00.003-07:00

This Mother’s Day is especially poignant for me, as I face my youngest child’s departure from home. My older children have already flown the nest, and now it is Big Guy’s turn to leave. Of course I will forever be my children’s mother, but I still feel a sense of loss.

I take a mental evaluation of nearly three decades of parenting. Did I teach my children the right things? Did I nurture them well?

A cross-stitch sampler hanging in my bedroom says:

There are only two lasting things we can give our children...one is roots, the other is wings.

It was instinctive for me, as with most mothers, to fiercely protect my children from physical harm and emotional insult, to strive to provide them with both the material and also the intangible necessities that make life enjoyable and satisfying, to instill in them a firm foundation of love and faith. I hope my efforts helped them develop not only roots and wings, but also the desire and confidence to use both of these gifts effectively and successfully with their own families.

To my little birds, M, L, D, and E: I think of you this Mother’s Day, and cherish each of you. It is an honor and a privilege to be your mother.

24...Minutes

2008-05-04T18:19:00.002-07:00

When I learned that my friend had come home from the hospital with her new baby, I called her and offered to take in some dinner that night at 6 PM.

Big Guy was leaving the next day on a trip, but generously volunteered to help me make lasagna. We chatted as he grated cheese, and I prepared the sauce. We made plans to watch “24” together later that night, provided that I had watched one episode on my own by then to catch up to the same point he was in the series. “Why don’t I watch it while the lasagna is baking?” I said, as we completed preparing the dinner. “Good idea,” he agreed, and turned on the oven for me. I slipped the pans into the oven, and I thought I checked the temperature to make sure it was correct. Then I hurried downstairs to the DVD where Jack Bauer and the rest of CTU were waiting to enthrall me.

Each episode of 24 usually contains these similar plots and dialogue: Jack races against the clock to prevent disaster to an unsuspecting public, he makes split-second decisions in life-threatening situations, he enlists the aid of reluctant co-workers in his renegade actions, and he inevitably mutters a frustrated and disgruntled “Fine!” when responding to directions or advice with which he does not agree. I already know the predicable plot interface, but still love to watch the final dressed-up product. This day was no different, and I was soon engrossed in the suspenseful drama.

Checking my watch when the episode was over, I realized I was nearly out of time. I was due at my friend’s house in less than...twenty-four minutes. I raced up the stairs and was horrified to smell burning cheese…. I gasped when I saw that the oven temperature was set at 450, one hundred degrees hotter than it should have been! The top of the lasagna was bubbling and blackish, and looked like hard molded plastic. I panicked, then calmed myself, and thought quickly. How could I salvage this meal? “Big Guy,” I yelled. “Please come here, and help me!” Big Guy appeared, and I tersely barked out orders. “Pull this burned layer off the top of the casserole while I make more sauce!” He looked doubtful.

“Fine!” I muttered, and suddenly, I became Jack Bauer, and I knew, confidently, that this mission would have a successful ending. “I’ll scrape the charred cheese, and you grate more mozzarella!” Lives are depending on us! I thought to myself, as I flew around the kitchen mixing sauce and heating leftover pasta.

“There’s not enough time,” Big Guy worried. “There has to be. We have no choice,” I encouraged. I left the bottom layers of edible lasagna intact, and carefully, but swiftly, added another layer of pasta, sauce and cheese. I shoved the whole pan under the oven broiler for four minutes while I heated French bread in the microwave oven. I grabbed a tossed salad and some dressing from the refrigerator, put the bread and lasagna in a cardboard box, turned off the oven, and dashed out the door, just under the wire, at two minutes to six.

Crisis averted. The free world, or rather, my friend and her family, never even suspected the ruin that had been moments from their door. Jack Bauer, the lessons you have taught me….

"...And All I Got Were These Crummy Pictures!"

2008-04-28T21:40:00.004-07:00

I got a new cell phone recently, and last week I decided it might be novel to use its camera to document a short trip. So all weekend long I snapped bucolic and scenic pics, mostly from the car window. When I got home, it proved quite difficult to send the pictures to my email address, and then save them for posting to my blog. For every picture I managed to send, there were five or six unsuccessful attempts. In addition, the pictures were very poor quality. What started out as an enthusiastic lark turned into a disappointing failure.

So, instead of pictures, I offer you a summary sentence. We traveled over 1000 miles by car in 3 ½ days, were rained and snowed on, were frightened by a sideways sliding semi on icy roads,
delighted in transporting The Little Princess to my mother’s new home where we reunited with all of our children for one night, enjoyed visiting with KL’s family and attending a wedding,
searched a cemetery, and drove home at a snail’s pace in two vehicles.

I think for future trips I’ll stick to using my phone for making calls.

Burning Down the House

2008-04-20T14:50:00.006-07:00

It all started when I and two other leaders of my Church women’s group were discussing simple refreshments for an upcoming activity.

“We could make carmel popcorn”, offered Marcie. “I have a really good recipe that’s soft and chewy.”

“Yeeees, I suppose that would be all right,” I slowly agreed, but at the same time wondering how I could diplomatically convince them to accept my suggestion. I had had a craving for Puppy Chow for several weeks, and dog-gone-it, I wanted to make some for this activity.

“Wait! How about Puppy Chow?!” I asked enthusiastically, as though I had just had a light-bulb moment. Marcie slightly frowned, and the other woman looked at me quizzically. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”

I began a lengthy sales pitch on the snack’s delectability, simplicity, and wholesome goodness. I only convinced them that it was the right choice when I volunteered to make all of the Puppy Chow myself, which I’m sure they recognized was the best selling point of all.

The night before the activity, I pulled out two big pots to make a double batch of the recipe. I dumped chocolate chips in both pans, and began melting them. Then I realized I wasn’t quite sure of the amount of butter needed, so I turned the burners off (or so I thought) and went to my office to look for the recipe on the internet. A quick Google search returned over 600 recipes for Puppy Chow on one site alone. I decided to see which recipe was lowest in fat and calories, and soon was engrossed in methodically analyzing each one.

Our smoke alarm is very loud and very alarming. Even as I heard it, my brain didn’t register that the alarm had been triggered by something I had done. I rushed through a smoke-filled dining room into the kitchen about five steps behind my husband. He grabbed the smoking pot with flames shooting up a good two feet.

I cringed. “Oh no! I thought I turned the units off!” I apologized, shocked and sheepish, as my KL put out the fire. Well, I had turned one unit off…and the other one I had inadvertently turned to high. What could have been a costly mistake turned out to merely cause coughing, and we quickly opened doors and windows and turned on the kitchen fan to clear out the smoke and the smell.

My Key Limey graciously offered to run to the store to buy more chocolate chips, although he teased that it was conditional on my agreeing not to burn down the house while he was gone. Later that night I finished the poster for the display for the women’s activity. It was poetically appropriate that the print font I used was Dalmation, inspired by the stereotypical firehouse dog.

Sans Ballots or Polls

2008-04-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has followed the United States presidential primaries in the last few months knows there have certainly been enough impassioned promises, plotting, strident claims, deliberate misrepresentations, back-biting, bold accusations, and calculated chicanery to fill several seasons of a prime-time television drama. I contrast those events with the dignified, peaceful, and orderly transition of a new president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

After the death of President Gordon B. Hinckley, the members of the Church were well aware that his position would be soon filled with a new president. Yet no members lobbied for candidates, no ambitious church leaders leaked half-truths about another to sow seeds of anger and discontent, and no one spent millions of dollars trying to lock down votes. We already knew the process whereby the new church president and prophet would be chosen, a process that we readily understand, support, and accept as being inspired by God.

I felt the tingle of testimony during the Saturday morning session of General Conference last weekend when I, and millions of others, unitedly stood, and unwaveringly sustained President Thomas S. Monson as our new prophet, and president of the Church. I did not need a poll or a political pundit to tell me I was making the right choice. I had a far more sublime witness, and experienced a singular moment of understanding how men and women on earth can righteously enact the will of God in heaven.

Let Us Run

2008-04-06T16:45:00.000-07:00

I usually run on my own, but yesterday the thought popped into my head to invite my husband to go on a short jog with me. Typically in the spring as the weather gets nicer, he embarks on a running program, and he has already been out running several more times this spring than I. Granted, I have many more opportunities for aerobic exercise than he does, but since I have slacked off running for several months, I thought we could enjoy a nice, easy run together.

“Shall I pick the route?” I asked cheerfully as we pattered down our street. “Sure,” he responded. “How far are we going?” He sounded a bit worried.

“Oh, just two or three miles. Isn’t that how far you usually run?” “That’ll work,” he said.

Two blocks later, as I was chattering away about household business, I realized I was craning my neck to talk back at him. I slowed a bit and asked if our pace was comfortable for him. He sucked in some air, and gasped, “As long as you don’t want me to talk. You’re going to have to do all the talking.” Hmmm. Would now be the time to spring my newest home renovation projects on him since he wouldn’t have the breath to object?!

We proceeded toward the cemetery, where I thought we would meander among the trees and the tombstones, and the deer and the dearly departed. As we headed down a long straightaway, I found myself again several strides in front of my Key Limey. I turned to face him and began running backward. Sweat was running in rivulets down his face. “Are you doing OK?” I smiled benignly. He did not smile back, but nodded. Maybe he thought I was showing off—maybe I was.

“Should I coach you like I do my clients?” I teased. “Come on, come on! You’re strong! Yes…yes! That’s it, stay with me, you can do it! Good form now…abs in, shoulders back and down! Focus…focus…look forward!” He merely looked at me, somewhat incredulously, then rolled his eyes, and shook his head with the slightest hint of irritation.

We came to a fork in the road, and KL turned to head back to the cemetery entrance. “No, no!” I chided. “We need to go up this little hill, over and back down if we want to get our miles in.” I sensed he might be regretting his decision to run with me, and yet I couldn’t refrain from being the drill sergeant.

“Here’s how we’ll take this hill. Imagine a bungee cord attached to your chest pulling you up the incline to that tree at the top. Lead with the chest, and breathe. Let’s go!” My husband wheezed and panted. “It feels more like a bungee cord is pulling me back from behind!” Nonetheless he was a persistent trooper, and we trotted up the hill.

I tried to goad him into sprinting the last one hundred yards to our house, but KL wouldn’t take the bait, and maintained his steady pace all the way in. After the run, he never criticized or berated me for what he could have easily deemed a condescending attitude. In fact, in all my years of running, my Key Limey has been wonderfully supportive, and my biggest fan. He’s encouraged me, praised me, bragged about me, and patiently endured me. And in the long run, I couldn’t find a better running partner than he.

Seven-Day Soup

2008-03-30T14:41:00.001-07:00

There is a children’s fable about a poor, starving mother and child who receive a magic porridge pot that continues to produce porridge on the command of “Cook little pot, cook!” until told to “Stop, little pot, stop!” This week I was living my own version of the fable, only with a “magic” soup pot.

My Key Limey has broadened his culinary talents beyond his famous expertise with key lime pies. He also has become quite adept at making savory soups. A week ago he made a creamy Ham-Potato-Broccoli-Cheese recipe that tantalized the taste buds and satiated the stomach. I was delighted to see that there was quite a lot of soup left over in the soup pot after our first meal of it. “There’s dinner for Monday and Tuesday nights…yes!” I reveled.

And so it was. I came home from work on Monday and Tuesday nights, chanted the magic words, “Cook, little pot, cook” as I filled two heaping bowls of soup and popped them into the microwave oven. We feasted sumptuously on soup, supplemented with bread and fruit.

On Wednesday night, I came home from work, and looked hopefully, but somewhat apologetically at my husband. “Is it all right if we have soup again? I know we’ve had it all week….” “Sure! I like that soup!” he responded congenially. Cook, little pot, cook!

Late that same evening, I discovered a message on my answering machine. I had missed a call from the missionaries confirming their dinner engagement with us the next night, which somehow I had failed to note in my calendar. What to do? I had to work until nearly six the next day, and they were due to arrive shortly thereafter. There was no time to make a nice dinner.

But of course! Cook, little pot, cook! On Thursday night I quickly added more broccoli to the magic pot, because by now, there was little broccoli, and fewer potato chunks left in the creamy gruel. Still, our guests seemed quite satisfied with the slightly plain Broccoli Cheese soup, and the Monster Sandwich that we served. And praise be—there was still soup in the pot!

By Friday afternoon, I was actually looking forward to soup for dinner. After an intense aerobics class, I thought that a warm shower and warm soup would definitely hit the spot. So I was quite disappointed when my Key Limey doubted that there would be enough soup for both of us. I ran to the refrigerator and opened the door. There sat the pot in its usual place of honor on the middle shelf. I pulled out the magic soup pot. It felt sort of…kind of…well, maybe…just a little heavy. I closed my eyes. Cook, little pot, cook!

I removed the lid, and triumphantly ladled out two generous servings of soup, which even overflowed the bowls as they simmered in the microwave oven! I sadly acknowledged, though, that the ladle was finally scraping the bottom of the pot. But wait! The dregs of the magic soup pot--a few broccoli florets, two potato chunks, one sliver of ham, all floating languidly in the savory sauce--were enough for one last delectable, though meager, serving!

I ate that last serving the next day, slowly, and almost reverently, after coming in from a cold run in the biting wind. Stop, little pot, stop, I thought, as I mused on the wholesome goodness of the Seven-Day Soup. It had nourished my body with comfort and calories for a whole week.

As sorry as I was to see the end to that soup, I noticed with eager anticipation just hours later, that my Key Limey was soaking a big pot of beans on the stove in the kitchen. The magic soup pot would yet live on…quite possibly, happily ever after!

Easter Message

2008-03-23T22:59:00.001-07:00

My friend and I were shocked by the gaunt, shrunken face of the woman sleeping in the hospital bed. Just two weeks earlier when we had been there, this same woman, Ruth, had alertly asked us to bring her some Taco Bell tacos (“hard shells, please…I don’t like those soft tortillas…and no lettuce!”) because she didn’t like the food served at the care center in which she resided.

Now here she was, after a rapid decline, just hours from death. Although Ruth had not been a close friend, she was an acquaintance with whom I had visited from time to time, and had tried to support during a difficult period of her life that had included the death of a close family member and several operations.

I was not surprised to hear that Ruth passed away the next day. Later, I visited with her adult children, whom I had never met before. I had volunteered to help them write the eulogy for her funeral. The family enjoyed the time together, sharing memories and anecdotes, both humorous and sublime. Writing the eulogy was not an easy task. A few short paragraphs seem paltry when trying to summarize a person’s character, courage, and eclectic interests.

The responsibilities I’ve faced incident to Ruth’s passing have caused me to contemplate life and death, gratification and regrets, and the difference between vital, important life events, and superficial, transitory experiences. It seemed appropriate that today was a sunny Easter morning. The glorious message of the atonement and resurrection are especially poignant and clear to me: “I know that my Redeemer lives! He lives, my Savior, still the same.”

Not Newsworthy

2008-03-16T16:11:00.004-07:00

For several days this last week, Eliot Spitzer’s problems were headline news. The media eagerly reported the shocking saga of the fierce crimebuster’s own criminal fiasco, his resignation from office, and possible litigation against him. The factual tale is genuinely headline newsworthy, and undoubtedly, reporters and audience alike are incredulous at the arrogant duplicity of Spitzer’s self-defeating behavior.

But what is not newsworthy is the endless analysis and interpretation burgeoning from the scandal. Every news anchor and commentator has expressed his or her opinions, and, in addition, presented an array of “experts” who have also pontificated and postured. The main questions debated seem to be: “What would make Spitzer do it?” and “Why does his wife stand by him?” Some of the commentary is absurd, as when one analyst suggested that Silda Spitzer was to blame for her husband’s misdeeds. These “news stories” are in reality just salacious speculation and sensationalism. The anchors and reporters do not possess the professional credentials to make judgments, nor do the “experts” have all the background and relevant information necessary to diagnose.

Report the crime, report any charges filed, report a trial and a verdict. Those stories are newsworthy. But leave the rest to Spitzer and his family to work out. It is none of our business, and it should not be the business of the news media.

Observations on a Day Visit

2008-03-09T16:03:00.003-07:00

Big Guy came home for a day this weekend. He and his girlfriend, Rachel, arrived late Friday night, and then left Sunday morning. He wasn’t here long, but it was enough time to notice a change or two about him.

Big Guy has new prescription wire rim glasses that make him look very distinguished and even more GQ-ly handsome (if that were ever a possibility)! He looks older to me, and more astute and capable somehow. He, however, is not as concerned with his new appearance as he is happy about his increased vision.

Big Guy was very solicitous of us, “the ‘rents”, as well as of Rachel. I saw him opening car doors and restaurant doors for her. He was careful to acquire appropriate clothing and supplies for her for their caving expedition. He politely thanked us numerous times for our hospitality, and apologized profusely for the brevity of the trip, and his inability to spend more time with us. Now, it’s not that Big Guy hasn’t always minded his manners. It’s just that this time his etiquette seemed a very natural and automatic characteristic of a genuinely sincere person.

He greeted and talked to old high school friends and acquaintances with good-natured conversation, and spoke comfortably and easily with several adults at Church. I didn’t hear any sarcastic jesting or sour cynicism so typical of many teenagers. I’m sure there must have been some youthful joking and banter when I wasn’t present, but I give him high marks for being well-spoken.

Just a week or so ago, Big Guy received the news that he will enter the Missionary Training Center on May 14^th in preparation for his mission to Portland, Oregon. It seems to me, as a proud mother, that he has been gaining in maturity his entire college freshman year. I am confident that he will present himself well as a representative of the Church.

As Big Guy left this morning to go back to college, I experienced a poignant pang, knowing that when he, my youngest child, next leaves home, it will be for two years. It will not be easy. But I am gratified to know that he has successfully developed many of the life skills that mark the change from childhood to adult.

The Little Toddler Princess

2008-03-02T12:50:00.006-07:00

My granddaughter, and her royal cortege, i.e. my son and daughter-in-law, visited for a few short days this last week. Just prior to celebrating her first birthday, The Little Princess began taking her first wobbly steps. Each day her balance and coordination improves, and it’s obvious that she loves her new walking skill, and the freedom and independence that it brings her.

Walking allows her to get into a lot of trouble more quickly. Within 20 minutes of being in my house, she had torn four or five magazines to shreds, tried to walk down the stairs, and then tried to shake down the gate we put up to block the stairs.

One day I had Firetop, as KL (Key Limey) calls her, in my office with me. She disdained the toys I had laid out for her, and began lurching around the room, looking for mischief. As is typical of any common baby, she has dumpster diver tendencies. She crouched over my trash basket, and very meticulously sorted through it, crumpling and tearing the discarded papers. She found a printer cartridge package to be particularly interesting, and carefully examined it for about ten minutes. Back in the trash she happened upon some ABC (Already Been Chewed) gum and knew just what to do with it. She popped it in her mouth for royal mastication as her father sustained near-bites extricating it from her eight sharp baby teeth.

The Little Toddler Princess granted us daily audiences in which we were enchanted with her baby babble and infectious giggle. We didn’t mind the toys she scattered, the trash she dumped, the cupboards she ransacked, the food she cast to the floor from her high chair, or even the lion riding toy she abandoned that tripped up Grandpa in the dark. Anytime she toddles toward me, arms outstretched, with a big grin on her face, I’ll do her royal bidding.

Mrs. Cyppy

2008-02-24T15:34:00.004-07:00

Barack Obama’s surge in popularity has given rise to some interesting internet articles and websites, two of which I found quite entertaining this week. Check out this article containing an Encyclopedia Baracktannica, with some witty, and some inane, definitions using Obama’s name, or corrupted versions of the same. Then there is the website, barackobamaisyournewbicycle.com, which I find hilariously clever in its understated simplicity.

I began wistfully thinking of my former visions of internet popularity, with mobs of adoring, sycophantic fans clamoring incessantly for my intelligent, pointed, and entertaining posts. I decided I need some Barackstar-type hype.

So meet my new persona: The Cyppster. My female devotees will be called the Cyppster Sisters, and the males will be members of Cyppy’s Posse. Those who prefer a non-gender-identifying term can be called “dis-cypples”.

They will eagerly await posts detailing the mediocri-cyppy of my life, which of course include no gos-cyppy, or heaven forbid, hypocri-cyppy, just straight talk detailing cyppy-isms with accura-cyppy. The Cyppster will be known far and wide for her gracious diploma-cyppy, her love of democra-cyppy, and her unflinching advoca-cyppy of pickleball.

In order to hasten my popularity in this in-cyppy-ent stage, I have prepared the following statements, which fall under the heading:

Cyppy is Your New I-Pod

Cyppy let you beat her at pickleball.

Cyppy did not complain when your annoying dogs barked all night long.

Cyppy loaned you her boa.

Cyppy changed her doorbell chime just for you.

Cyppy smiled indulgently at you even when you made numerous grammatical errors.

Cyppy put away your bike for you after spinning class.

Cyppy knew without asking the sex of your cute, but bald baby.

Cyppy let you play Halo in her basement for eight hours straight.

Cyppy dressed up in a costume for your fund-raising event.

Cyppy came to your home party.

Cyppy went on a chocolate fast with you.

Cyppy bought you a fashionable briefcase online.

Cyppy remembered your name.

Cyppy treated you to an afternoon of ice skating.

Cyppy ran a mile with you.

If all goes well, I may be running for president in 2012. Perhaps I’d do quite well in Mississippi.

Motivation

2008-02-17T16:56:00.002-07:00

For the past two of weeks I’ve conducted fitness assessments for the new city employee wellness program. The city is offering attractive incentives, such as cash bonuses and paid days off, for employees who meet their goals in the program. There has been great interest in the new plan, which was implemented to improve employees’ health and morale, and thereby decrease absenteeism, illnesses, injuries and associated expenses.

As a fitness specialist, I help the employees set goals which are reasonable and attainable. As I talked to them, most of the employees shared their enthusiasm for the program and commented that they’d do almost anything to get their paid days off. A couple of them went so far as to suggest that they should “sandbag” the current tests in order to show improvement at the 6-month re-testing date, and earn the incentive. Only a few of my testees cared more about the healthful benefits of the program than they did the monetary rewards.

I guess I should not be surprised that most of these people were more concerned about money than they seemed to be concerned about their health. Money, pleasure, and comfort are big motivators. And that extends to more than just issues of health.

I ponder why we are sometimes motivated to do the right thing for the wrong reason. Or, if it’s not for the wrong reason, it’s for a less worthy reason than what could readily be labeled as the “right” reason. Shouldn’t we be motivated to do the right thing for the right reason? Are human frailties and character flaws to blame? Do we naturally gravitate toward selfishness and self-servedness? Have financial gain, leisure, and entertainment become the prime motivational influences of our society?

I’ll be the first to admit that I have done many things, and even good things, for the wrong reason. But I hope that as my understanding of life experiences and its nuances increases, so will my ability to live a life motivated by altruism, and tempered only by morally justifiable egoism.

Diplomacy

2008-02-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

Last night I ran into a young man whom I had known quite well several years ago, but with whom I had not kept in touch. I had met his wife briefly a couple of years ago, but since I could not remember her name, I decided to focus my attention on their baby.

The child, who had a round, cherubic face, rosy cheeks, and wisps of blonde hair, was dressed in a green sleeper, and wrapped in a multi-colored blanket. I could not be sure whether the baby was a boy or girl.

Knowing the frustration my daughter-in-law feels when, despite dressing my granddaughter in frilly, pink outfits, and gluing little bows in her hair, The Little Princess is called a boy, I thought I’d diplomatically get this mother to reveal the child’s gender, without my having to bluntly ask.

“So how old is your baby?” I politely inquired, hopeful that the answer would come in complete sentence form, beginning with the all-important identifying pronoun “He” or “She”.

“Three months,” Mother politely replied. “Ah…so sweet!” I gushed, only momentarily stymied while inwardly formulating my next question, which I posed cunningly to the baby [itself]:

“And what’s your name, you little cutie?” I was confident the mother would immediately respond with the name that would allow me to continue the conversation and correctly refer to the child as a boy or girl, as if I’d known all along.

“Lorimer," Mother announced proudly. OK, sounds like a boy name, I thought, but it’s trendy to give daughters what have been traditional boys’ names, so I am not really sure still. “I don’t believe I’ve heard that name before. Is it a family name?” I ventured. Surely Lorimer’s mother would have to call her child “him” or “her”, or say “he” or “she”, sooner or later.

“It’s the name of the man who married us,” Mother divulged.

“Oh, I see!” I nodded, even though I really didn’t see it at all. “And…was that his first name? Or last name….?” Come on, Mother, give me something to work with here!

“His last name,” Mother replied. “We liked the man, and we liked the name, so that’s what we decided to name the baby.”

Argggh! I gave up. “Lorimer, you are such a cute little baby,” I cooed. “Goochie, goochie goo”.….whether you’re a boy or a girl.

Beautiful Blue Eyes

2008-02-03T17:57:00.000-07:00

It seemed strange to me, when, as a child, I heard some old recording artist lilting a song from my Dad’s version of the Top 40: “Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes. I’ll never love blue eyes again.” I remember thinking, as only a very egocentric (blue-eyed child) can think, “That’s weird. Blue eyes are the best color. Why would anyone like brown eyes over blue?!”

Now I’ve learned that I’m the product of a genetic mutation. That finding conjures up visions of white lab-coated mad scientists with unkempt hair and coke-bottle glasses stirring bubbling concoctions in test-tubes over a Bunsen burner, that transform normal, respectable people into those savage monsters that Will Smith battles in I Am Legend. My poor children. I’ve passed on this apparent aberration to three of them. Don’t be ashamed—it’s not your fault!

We’re victims. And now that the news is out, that blue-eyed people are a….dare I say it again…[shudder, wince]…a mutation, no doubt we will be subjected to unfair discrimination and persecution, when previously we enjoyed some degree of acceptance in society. Certainly the government should design a program to rectify this situation. At the very least, maybe our Congressmen should earmark funds to provide us with colored contacts.

Until then, perhaps I'll go Hollywood chic and keep my sunglasses on over my baby blues.

Mind-Body

2008-01-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

Wim Hof of the Netherlands set a world record yesterday by staying in an outdoor ice bath for 72 minutes. The day before, I was intrigued when I saw this man take a mini ice bath (standing a mere 40 minutes submerged neck to toe in 1300 pounds) on a morning news program.

Wim believes cold is a noble force and brings about good energy, and in fact, suffers no ill effects from the ice baths. He says he controls his body temperature through mind-body meditation.

Although I would never subject myself to such an exercise, I have my own mind-body challenge going on currently in the Pilates class I teach. As the instructor, I’m supposed to help the class participants bring their minds and bodies in harmony, focusing intently on proper execution of each exercise, and blocking out distractions.

This mind-body connectivity is difficult enough in optimum conditions, and I’m finding it quite a task during the current renovation at the gym where I teach. My class is meeting temporarily in half of a full-sized gym, the other half being a make-shift weight room separated from us only by a canvas curtain. The other day, even as I admonished my class to “connect your minds with what your bodies are doing in space”, I found my mind wandering.

We pumped our arms vigorously during the trademark Pilates One Hundred, and I heard the radio blaring from the weight room on the other side of the curtain. My supervisor had declined my request to turn off the sound system during the class, and she had suggested that the radio would be a true test of our ability to stay in the "mind-body zone". I almost giggled aloud when I recognized Kenny Loggins belting out “Danger Zone”, and quickly tried to refocus.

I cued a few more exercises, and I thought I was back on track. Then somewhere around the Swan Dive and Swimming exercises, I caught myself listening to the radio again. This time it was Gwen Stefani advising, “Don’t speak….don’t tell me ‘cause it hurts…” Yes, some of the Pilates exercises kind of hurt, I thought. Well, not really hurt...maybe cause some tension and strain. But it’s all good. A strong core is such an advantage and can really…..grrrrrrrr! I’m off in left field again! Refocus.

I was a mind-body machine through the Leg Lift Series, and even through Leg Pull Front. We were on the Full-Rollover/Full Rollup superset, with just one exercise to go. But it was no use. I heard Bon Jovi appropriately summing up my whole class, “We’re halfway there….living on a prayer.” I was halfway focused, halfway connected, and had half a prayer of staying in the mind-body zone.

Obviously I have quite a way to go to reach the Zen-control of Wim Hof. His next goal is to run a marathon in shorts at the North Pole. Here’s a song for you, Wim; try staying focused as it replays over and over in your head: “You’re cold as ice…you’re willing to sacrifice…”

The Boa

2008-01-20T18:18:00.000-07:00

I call it a boa, but the package it came in identifies it as a “Magic Scarf”. I gave it to myself for Christmas, a common practice of mine for which some have called me selfish, and perhaps rightly so, but for which I refuse to apologize, and brazenly admit does not make me lose too much sleep at night.

The magic scarf appeals to the senses in many ways—bright and colorful, fuzzy and soft. It is 100% polyester, and 100% non-American-made, for which I lamely apologize, but, again, brazenly admit does not make me lose too much sleep at night.

The package illustrates eight versatile ways of wearing the magic scarf, although some of the variations look suspiciously similar.

I think it looks striking with my black jacket and my pea coat, which I wear frequently to church functions in the current winter temperatures. So the boa has become an indispensable part of my winter outer wear. It is a fairly unique, and I daresay, desirable, item. I have seen similar products, but few that are just like it. There’s just one problem.

I was so charmed by the boa that I bought several for gifts, and I gave one to a woman at church for whom I was a “Secret Santa”. So now I’m worried that she will see me at church meetings wearing my boa, and instantly identify me as the heretofore anonymous giver. I’m torn, because my church functions are the majority of occasions for which the boa is appropriate attire. I mean, I could hardly wear the boa to my job at the gym with my standard workout clothes without raising a few eyebrows.

Still, I refuse to be a closet boa-wearer. Today I boldly wore my boa to church, breezed into the chapel and sat down in the pew. Then I made my Key Limey scan the congregation for the other woman, preparing to hide my feathery accessory quickly in my bag should she be present. She was not there today, so the beautiful boa graced and warmed my neck throughout the service.

Season Premiere Postponed

2008-01-13T17:02:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, I discovered that my middle son, Arnold Pants (one of his self-appointed pseudonyms), and I were both avid viewers of cable re-runs of 24, a thrilling television action series. So I readily agreed to watch video rentals of Season One episodes with him and my other sons during the Christmas holidays.

At first my Key Limey spurned our attempts to coax him into watching the shows with us, despite our assurances that he would find the series intensely exciting and appealing. We described to him how the main character, Jack Bauer, is a man’s man, the ultimate renegade, but immensely likeable good guy, whose quick and lucid thinking extracts him from many dangerous situations, all in the admirable cause of saving the United States government, its citizens, and by golly, even the entire free world, from terrorists. (Jack is also ruggedly handsome and charismatic, and has a raspy sexy voice, but I didn’t bother to try to sell my Key Limey on those character advantages.)

One night out of boredom, or perhaps, curiosity, my Key Limey joined us in watching our nightly episode. He was hooked. In fact, after we had watched three straight shows, he protested the end of the viewing, even though it was after 2 AM.

24 is definitely addictively entertaining. It leaves my Key Limey and me with some questions about the series:

Is the edgy violence tolerable because its effect is neutralized on a smaller TV screen? Would the series retain its dramatic punch with less of it?

How many times can one person face so many life-threatening situations in 24 hours?

Are all our government special agencies infiltrated with traitorous moles?

How is it that vital phone calls to CTU always go to Nina’s extension? And where can I download that distinctive ringtone for my cell phone?!

Why does CTU allow non-employees (Teri, Jack’s wife, for instance) to wander around this top secret agency unattended?

Can there ever really be a US president with the integrity of David Palmer?

Since the show depicts real time, what is happening during the minutes of the commercials? Can’t we get that action in outtakes?!

If not for the strike of the Writer’s Guild of America, Season Seven of 24 would have aired tonight. The season has been postponed, to ensure a non-stop season of continuous episodes. I’m disappointed, but mollified by the fact that now I’ll have some time to watch the previous seasons I’ve missed. I eagerly anticipate bringing myself up to date with Seasons Two through Six. I could almost watch 24 24-7.

Family and Friends

2008-01-06T20:43:00.000-07:00

The Christmas holidays whizzed right by in a flurry of visiting and celebrating. All of my immediate family made their way home despite treacherous blizzards, swelling our house occupancy from two to nine.

We talked, joked, debated, matched wits at board games, spoiled The Little Princess, attended Church together, played basketball and a lot more pickleball, watched an entire season of “24”, and marveled at Big Guy’s amazing mastery of Guitar Hero.

We were busy with other important activities as well. Most of the family attended a college football bowl game, and our team pulled out a last minute victory. We had a successful family portrait sitting, for which my daughter cheerfully coordinated our outfits, resulting in one big handsome family! Big Guy received his Eagle Scout award at a Court of Honor, at which all the male members of our family proudly stood as current Eagle Scouts. The Little Princess’s father celebrated a twenty-something birthday, with obligatory chicken rolls and lemonade pie. My Key Limey and my middle son participated in a somewhat disappointing, but politically interesting, presidential caucus.

We all enjoyed the camaraderie and companionship. For me, my son the new lawyer, said it best when he offered some remarks at Big Guy’s Eagle Scout Court of Honor. He recounted how when Big Guy was born, he had not been sure how much interaction he’d have with Big Guy, since they are 9 ½ years apart in age. He then said, “And now, I count you, [Big Guy] as one of my best friends.”

An old saying quips that you can’t choose your relatives, but you can choose your friends. I am happy to choose these relatives, my family, as my best friends.

Impish Fun

2007-12-16T21:17:00.000-07:00

In Christmases past our children were delighted to find that not only Santa, but his elves too, had left gifts at our house. Elf Jerome, Elf Herbert, Elf Waldo, and Elf Carl were terrible spellers, and their scrawled messages were often tactless, yet almost always funny. The truth comes out this Christmas as to the identities of these imps. Check it out.

Ho ho ho!

Swivel Chair Shopping

2007-12-09T22:04:00.000-07:00

As the weather gets colder, my desire to go out shopping decreases. So I’m doing most of my holiday shopping this year online. There are definite advantages, and disadvantages.

I love the variety of merchandise available. A person can find just about anything imaginable on the web—from giant plush microbes (e-coli and ebola are a little distasteful-looking, but the mono microbe is quite cute and cuddly) to a heated toilet seat (heats to a comfortable 25 degrees Fahrenheit above the average room temperature, and costs only pennies a day).

On-line shopping can be quick and easy. But the forms, you say. I have all my information stored in a free web form filler that completely automates password entering and form filling. I click on “fill forms” and my vital info appears instantly in the right boxes. (Of course I check to make sure the site is secure before making any purchases.)

Many on-line vendors offer free shipping during the holidays, and with a little website comparison shopping, all done from the comfort of my swivel office chair, I can get some pretty good deals.

However, I’ve learned that some of those same benefits can also be banes if I’m not careful. For instance, with so many fascinating products out there, I tend to spend way too much time browsing and comparing and googling until my internet history for a single online shopping encounter scrolls down over two monitor screens. It becomes an obsessive compulsion to find not only a good deal, but the best deal, which can take a bit of time.

When I find a particularly good bargain, I click the web form filler, and buy it. That warm, fuzzy, (I could be a new plush microbe--the shopping bug) successful feeling makes it so easy to start a new search all over again, and buy more…and more... If I’m not careful, the cost, even with all the “bargains”, can rival the time issue as a serious matter for evaluation.

I’ve just about finished up my shopping, and I fear a let-down. I may have to add distant relatives or casual acquaintances to my gift recipients’ list so that I can keep shopping. I saw a neat LED blow on-off candle (a puff of air is all it takes to turn it on or off) and a personalized smiling frog or duck stethoscope cover (to help ease the fright and worry of little ones at the doctor's office and put a smile on their faces). Any takers? I’ll scour the net for the best price.

Serviceable

2007-12-02T17:12:00.000-07:00

We’ve all heard the adage, “It is better to give than to receive.” Does it work? Do we really feel better when we’re giving than receiving? What more appropriate time than the Christmas season to put this advice to the test?

Try it and see! During the next month, as we start each day, let us sincerely reflect and meditate on the following question: Who needs my help today? We will surely be inspired with ways we can give service to others. Some opportunities will be as small as giving someone a smile, a compliment, or a hug. Other opportunities may require much more effort and time, such as shoveling a neighbor’s driveway, or babysitting a friend’s children while she shops.

We will quickly begin to recognize and act upon possibilities that we once never would have noticed, or, if we had recognized them, never thought seriously about pursuing them. We may be surprised at the simplicity and ease of many acts of service, and on the other hand, we may be taken aback at the difficulty of some of the chances to help that present themselves to us. But no matter what the service, if we take the time to render it with sincere kindness and love, our joy will be as sweet and precious to us as the gift is to the recipient.

Everyone has times of helplessness, loneliness, and even hopelessness. May we take the challenge this season to give service, thereby providing relief to others from crippling feelings and attitudes, and quite possibly seeing a reversal of any such negative situations in our own lives, as well. In doing so, we will definitely know the meaning of Acts 20:35: “I have shewed you all things, how that so labouring ye ought to support the weak, and to remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Try it, and have a merry Christmas!

Adventures in Babysitting

2007-11-25T21:12:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I babysat The Little Princess for about seven straight hours. I had been looking forward to the occasion for several weeks despite my son’s and daughter-in-law’s reports of her recent fussy and frustrating behavior.

The biggest challenge was the location of the baby-tending, which was my mother-in-law’s home. This octogenarian great-grandmother has many mementos, curios, crafts, and pictures received from doting children and grandchildren, prominently and precariously displayed throughout the house. In other words, her house is in no way baby-proofed.

The Little Princess arrived in her pink and brown leopard outfit, very appropriate for the prowling she did for the next few hours. After studying my face for a few seconds, then grabbing at my mouth for a few more, she’d had enough of me. She wriggled and writhed until I put her on the floor, and she began exploring with her newly acquired crawling skill.

She immediately scurried toward some newspapers on the floor, and ripped into them. As I pulled them from her hands before she could put the pieces into her mouth, she squirted away toward the picture display on the bottom shelf of the sofa table. She headed straight toward the frames of her dad and his brothers (I’m sure it was not a coincidence—of course she’s a very intelligent child), knocked them down, and began slapping the glass. I righted the pictures, but she escaped away to one of the many houseplants in the room and ripped off a couple of leaves before I caught up to her.

I pried the leaves out of her hands, turned the injured side of the plant to the wall, hoping Great-Grandma wouldn’t notice, then spied The Little Princess bee-lining toward the kitchen. I chased her down and scooped her up. I realized I would not be sitting much that day.

She did stay still for a few minutes at one point. She was standing next to some furniture, and became very quiet, but really red in the face, and it was apparent she was concentrating…. Yep, you know exactly what that was all about.

I took Firetop (her dad’s latest nickname for her) into the basement bathroom for a diaper change. There was a pullstring on a light down there that she found mesmerizing. As the ball on the end of the string swung back and forth, her eyes widened with intense interest, and she reached out excitedly to grab it, even though it was several feet out of her reach. She giggled and smiled and stared at that ball as though it was as captivating as a mirror ball at the high school prom.

Later, after pulling her out of a flower arrangement, and saving Great-grandma’s stuffed animal collection from death by slobber, I attempted to feed The Little Princess some strained pears. She was only mildly interested in eating them, so I put her down for a nap with her favorite pink blanket in her porta-crib in the dining room.

A mere thirty minutes later, I heard a scraping, scratching sound coming from the dining room. I knew it was not Great-grandma making the noise, and realized Firetop was awake, although she wasn’t whimpering or crying at all. The noise continued, and then there was a plop, as if something had hit the floor. I went into the room to investigate. The Little Princess had managed to unscrew a knob off of Great-grandma’s buffet, which was within arm’s reach of the porta-crib. She looked up at me innocently with those big blue eyes.

Recharged, Firetop continued her methodical exploration. I rescued her from damaging or being injured by decorative knick-knacks, electrical cords, fireplace implements, and throw rugs, which were infinitely more appealing to her than her own toys. I needed a change of scenery.

Having no stroller, I took her on a walk around the block on my shoulders—she ain’t heavy, she’s my granddaughter! We sat for a moment on the lawn while she pulverized leaves, but delicately fingered the grass. A bottle, another short nap, and suddenly my adventure in babysitting was over.

The Little Princess will visit me in my house in a few weeks. She won’t find nearly as many tempting trouble spots waiting for her as she did as Great-grandma’s house. But she will find Oma C waiting with open arms.

Rafter

2007-11-18T22:06:00.000-07:00

It’s a brood of hens, and a gaggle of geese, but did you know it’s a rafter of turkeys? I talked my Key Limey into helping me make this rafter of gobblers for some family and friends (although he may deny it). Who knew we were so crafty? Maybe we’ll get into scrapbooking next….

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Count your blessings this Thursday. Name them one by one. You may be pleasantly surprised by the high number you reach.

Breakdown

2007-11-11T15:25:00.000-07:00

Paula Radcliffe of Great Britain had a triumphant moment of glory as she won the women’s division of the New York City Marathon last week. Only nine months after giving birth, Radcliffe completed the 26.2 mile course in two hours and 23 minutes.

I haven’t kept track of Radcliffe since watching the television coverage of her participation in the Olympics in Athens three years ago. It was an entirely different story then. Though a gold medal favorite, Radcliffe succumbed to the heat and stress of the Olympic course, and dropped out of the race about three miles from the end. As she sat on the curb, distraught and weeping, looking confused and disoriented, I could feel a bit of her pain and anguish, as I recalled a race breakdown of my own.

In 2003, I ran a marathon in Richmond, Virginia, with my daughter, L. She had agreed to stay with me the whole race, and be my pacer. L, a determined and driven runner, set our initial race pace at a little faster clip than that at which I was used to training. Her encouragement and companionship helped me maintain that pace, though it was not comfortable. As the miles rolled by, I could tell I was tiring faster than usual, my breathing was labored, and talking was an impossibility.

At about mile 19, L turned to me with concern and asked if I were OK. I can vividly remember the desperate feelings that overwhelmed me--panic, anxiety, doubt, fear. I I thought I couldn’t run one more foot, and I was not sure I could finish the race even if I walked. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and gasping, I stopped running, and choked back sobs.

Although she was shocked and a little alarmed at my seeming collapse, L soothingly coached me through that horrible breakdown. She helped me clear my head, and got my legs moving again. She motivated me with her words and her confidence in me. She pulled me through until the end of the race, when we were able to share our moment of glory. We crossed the finish line together, with my fastest time ever, a personal record that still stands for me.

Like the peaks and valleys of the terrain on which we train, every runner has moments of both jubilant exultation and brutal despair, sometimes in a single race. Some of these moments we face alone, others we share with friends, family, and even competitors. In the long run, all of these experiences help shape and define our discipline, desire and will.

Caution

2007-11-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

The internet is a wonderful tool. It’s so easy, so efficient, and seemingly so anonymously safe. In the past week I’ve shopped, banked, communicated, and even studied scriptures online. I’ve also sent an online birthday card, researched home improvement projects, and verified spelling and definitions of words.

There are other useful and productive things to do online. My son is an avid user of Craigslist, an online classified ads website. He has found home and baby furniture, an apartment, and a temporary job by browsing its listings.

This last week I heard a news story about a young woman who was found murdered in the trunk of her car. Apparently she had gone to meet a prospective employer after responding to a want ad for a babysitter on Craigslist. Police have arrested a 19-year-old man who may have submitted the false ad to which she responded.

I feel sad and sorry for this woman and her family. Surely she must have felt as I do, that the internet was a valuable tool. In fact, she had successfully used Craigslist to obtain employment before.

The story makes me feel uneasy and personally vulnerable, and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it’s an irrational and illogical fear that because my family member frequents that site, something bad could happen to him. Maybe it’s a disquieting knowledge that for every benefit of the internet, there is also an evil application. Maybe it’s because I know I will always have to be wary and careful when using the internet, even as I wish I could trust that it is safe and secure.

Home Improvement

2007-10-25T19:31:00.000-07:00

I’m a victim. It’s not my fault. Those home improvement shows on television entrapped me. After my husband ordered the expanded cable television, I watched Design on a Dime on HGTV, and my problem snowballed. Soon I was enthralled by similar shows, like Deserving Design, Clean House, Color Correction, Mission: Organization, and Carter Can. The transformations of the homes on these shows, under the direction of young, hip, and extremely bold and confident designers, are usually nothing short of breathtaking and miraculous.

Suddenly I saw my house for what it really was—not my comfortable, lived-in, warm and inviting refuge from the world: it was shabby and worn, with garish wallpaper, faded and threadbare window treatments and hopelessly dated formica counter tops. Where were my clean lines, my pleasing “spaces”, my color palate designed to soothe and relax? The shows convinced me that I needed hardwood or laminate flooring, granite countertops, a versatile cooking island in the kitchen flanked by stainless steel appliances, and a master suite with a walk-in closet as big as my current bedroom.

So I began tackling “projects” around the house. Decluttering the storage room, and cleaning and organizing the spare bedrooms. Tearing out the sink and the vanity in the upstairs bathroom. Ordering a new front door and a sidelight. Stripping and staining the back deck, dreaming up designs for a master suite retreat. The problem is, I’ve started all these projects…but haven’t finished any of them. But it’s not my fault. I place the blame solely on those addicting shows. Not only does watching them take away time that I could spend working on my projects, but each new show seems to highlight areas in my own house that are in desperate need of attention, causing me to plow into yet another project.

Obviously I’m an inept designer, organizer, and project manager. So I’ve been justifying my inadequate efforts. What’s wrong with the old stuff anyway? Is old necessarily bad? Is updating obligatory? All that time and energy expended, not to mention money. Should I change my thinking to be in line with this old adage?

Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do, or do without.

I can almost make do by just watching the television transformations, instead of trying to enact them. And actually, I may be making some progress. Half of the bathroom is now painted Cascading Water (the paint color), although now I’m wondering if it really evokes the right emotional response….

Paris Run

2007-10-14T18:33:00.000-07:00

I’m feeling somewhat wistful. October is the month in which I usually run a marathon. This year I will not be competing. Last summer’s hectic schedule, and especially our trip to Europe, left me with too little training time. But I still wish I were running a race.

So I think back to one glorious run in France last July, and I am somewhat mollified. One morning we rode the subway to Jardin des Tuilleries, the expansive park near the Louvre. It was early enough that there were virtually no tourists in the park, or in the courtyard of the Louvre. I nearly had the entire place to myself as I ran along a white, crushed stone road, around a reflecting pond and numerous statues.

The sun was shining, it was still relatively cool, and my stride was comfortable. This was my first run on our trip, and the surroundings could not have been more inspirational. The empty tree-lined paths directly contrasted with the nearby steel and concrete of the bustling city. In the middle of the busy metropolis, here was a place to think and ponder, absorb and enjoy.

I ran under the Arc du Carrousel into the empty courtyard of the Louvre, past the famous landmark pyramid. No one was there. It was eerily thrilling. I ran the perimeter twice, and into the back pavilion, craning my neck to gaze in awe at all the statues gracing the eaves of the palace, wondering at the time and effort required in such craftsmanship.

It was an exhilarating run, and reflecting on it mitigates the disappointment of not running a fall marathon. I hope there will be another marathon in another year, and until then, I have my memories of that morning in Paris.

This One Is Honest

2007-10-07T17:41:00.000-07:00

The waiting is over. My son, the new dad-lawyer, received word that he passed the bar exam that he took last July. It’s been a long two and a half months in lawyer limbo, as he was hindered in his career aims without the all-important bar credential.

He will be sworn in as an official attorney in a couple of weeks. In his honor, I thought I would publish a few lawyer jokes that he can read in case he ever starts to take himself too seriously:

Q: How can you tell when a lawyer is lying?
A: His lips are moving.

Q: Why won't sharks attack lawyers?
A: Professional courtesy.

Q: What's the difference between a dead dog in the road and a dead lawyer in the road?
A: There are skid marks in front of the dog.

Q: What do you have when a lawyer is buried up to his neck in sand?
A: Not enough sand.

Q: Why did God make snakes just before lawyers?
A: To practice.

Q: What do lawyers use for birth control?
A: Their personalities.

Q: What’s the difference between a lawyer and a herd of buffalo?
A: The lawyer charges more.

Q: What do you get when you cross the Godfather with a lawyer?
A: An offer you can't understand.

It was so cold last winter that a lawyer was seen walking down the street with his hands in his own pockets.

Did you hear about the group of terrorists that hijacked a plane full of lawyers?

They called down to ground control with their list of demands, threatening that if their demands weren't met, they would release one lawyer every hour.

And my Key-Limey’s favorite lawyer joke:

Q: What's black and brown and looks good on an attorney?
A: A Doberman pinscher.

All in fun, M. We know you are honest, charismatic, compassionate, and a man of integrity. You will be a great asset to the legal profession. Congratulations, we’re proud of you!

Paris, oui!

2007-09-30T21:42:00.000-07:00

For some maddening and inexplicable reason, I cannot publish my latest blog. But since pictures seem to load satisfactorily, I'm posting some photos taken in France this summer.

Waffling

2007-09-23T17:01:00.000-07:00

I have one week left to make my decision. Most people would shrug off this choice in a second. Yet, I have been vacillating between action and no action for a couple of weeks.

Here’s my dilemma. About three weeks ago we bundled our telephone, cable, and internet services with a new company. A couple of days later I received this enticing advertisement in the mail from my former phone company. “Just answer nine simple questions, and as a little incentive to make it worth your while, we’ll give you…a FREE cool, creamy and delicious DQ Waffle Bowl Sundae!”

Now, I do enjoy DQ treats. Immensely. So it’s a no-brainer, right? I should get online right now, before my drooling soaks my shirt. But wait. The advertisement includes the following guilt-inducing line:

“You’re a great customer whose loyalty means a lot to us.” (This loyal customer traitorously discontinued her service.)

There is an ID and password to enter a website, and further instruction to complete a survey by September 30, 2007. The fine print says, “We request that the survey be completed by someone in the household who is fully or jointly responsible for making decisions about your household’s telephone, internet and other communications services. Free DQ Waffle Bowl Sundae offer available to online survey participants only.”

Here’s the question then. Given the circumstances, is it dishonest, or demonstrating a lack of integrity to claim the dessert?

This Empty House

2007-09-16T17:57:00.000-07:00

Big Guy has been at college for two weeks now. Most days it seems like he’s been gone much longer, and we miss him a lot. Every day there are nostalgic reminders that our youngest son no longer lives here:

We have hot water for our morning showers. Big Guy was very clean—those nearly 30- minute showers every day assured that.

Our evening meals are uninterrupted by his cell phone vibrating. Now maybe I’ll be joining the group(ies) interrupting his dinner with a phone call or text message.

There are frozen pizzas and hamburger patties sitting untouched in the freezer. A mother can only hope that his dorm cafeteria serves food to his liking, because I doubt they offer Totino’s there.

The driveway is always empty. The battered ’89 Ranger was supposed to retire in Colorado, but has motored its way to Big Guy on the other side of the Rockies.

The area in front of the television is clear of the PlayStation, X-Box, and Guitar Hero paraphernalia. I bittersweetly miss the mess, and also his friends who congregated downstairs playing the games, watching TV, and visiting. They were good kids. Often loud, and boisterous, but good kids.

There is only one gallon of milk in the refrigerator at a time. Big Guy’s guzzling of moo juice required the purchase of at least 4 gallons per week. Keep swigging the milk, Big Guy—forget the soda pop in the cafeteria and vending machines!

The piano is silent. Big Guy’s playing was often quite dramatic (interpretation: loud) and echoed throughout the house. It was commanding, impressive, and beautiful.

There are no empty microwave popcorn bags on the kitchen counter. I often thought Big Guy left the remnants of his late-night snack there intentionally, even though the wastebasket was a mere 3 feet away. It was kind of our personal friction point, silly and trivial, but ongoing. I refused to throw them away, and I would then write him polite little notes asking him to do so. I think there is a microwave oven in the commons area of his dorm. I wonder who throws the popcorn bag away now.

The lawn is extremely long. Big Guy kept it looking trim and tidy all summer long…we need a new lawnboy!

I can peacefully sleep right through the midnight hour. Although groggy, I was always appreciative that Big Guy very dependably checked in to tell us he was home safely whenever he had been out after we had gone to bed. Now there’s no curfew at college, and will his roommate even care if he’s out late? (Should I have Big Guy check in with me with a phone call…..? Just joking.)

Our house seems empty without him, even though when he lived here, Big Guy was often away for sports, school, and church activities. My husband and I enjoy some of the new peace and quiet, but we definitely miss him. We’re looking forward to Thanksgiving, when Big Guy and his brother will be home. Maybe they’ll throw an X-box or Guitar Hero party, and invite over a bunch of raucous friends. We will not protest a bit.

Seeking Certainty

2007-09-09T20:58:00.000-07:00

I heard a recent news report regarding fortune-telling in Iraq. Apparently a lot of ordinary people in the country are ignoring the Islamic prohibition against soothsaying, and are seeking guidance from psychics and fortune-tellers. Some Iraquis are turning to charms, stones, and rings to guard against bad luck, and others sift through coffee cup dregs to predict the future.

Obviously these people are living in crisis, and the intense desire for some certainty in their lives must motivate them to try these options. Yet I am a little bewildered that these highly religious people do not turn to the tenets of their faith for the strength, hope, and comfort that can sustain them through their trials.

I thought about the challenges and uncertainties facing my family and friends at this time. Will my son, the new dad-lawyer, pass his bar exam, and find meaningful and personally satisfying employment? Will my daughter adjust to a new life thousands of miles away from family and friends? How will my younger two sons fare as they navigate the complex intellectual, social, and emotional waters at a large university? What can my husband and I do to make our transition to life as “empty-nesters” as comfortable as possible? Will my parents be able to cope with the demands and stress of a move to a new city? How can I help some of my friends who are facing serious health problems, relationship trauma, and financial complications?

My answers, or the peace I need when there are no clear answers yet, come from my faith. I trust in the divine assistance and guidance from a much higher power than special stones or rings, or leftover coffee. I find it perplexing that the Iraquis do not do the same.

Sweet Revenge

2007-09-06T19:59:00.000-07:00

“Double the taxes! Triple the taxes! I’ll make them pay!”

This line from my kids’ Robin Hood cassette story came to mind in the middle of my first spinning class of the new session yesterday. Only it wasn’t taxes I wanted to double and triple. It was the amount of tension or resistance on the class participants’ bikes. Actually it was the resistance on one specific participant’s bike. Let me explain.

I have a petty grudge against a certain man in my town. I know it’s immature, and shows a lack of character, because the guy really did not do anything intentionally to deserve my ire. Yet some extenuating circumstances have resulted in my feeling resentful toward him. The man is oblivious of my tempered rancor.

So when he walked into my cycling class, I was initially caught off guard. How should I act?! Polite, but reserved? Standoffish? Cold? Nasty? Hostile?!

I chose to be devious, and I was quite pleased with my cordial charade. My amicable manner covered my inner disdain as I helped him sign the attendance form and set up his bike. All the while I was wickedly thinking, “He’s going to have the ride of his life.”

As we began the intense aerobic portion of the class, I kept my eye on the man. It wasn’t long before he was sweating, and his pedaling lagged.

“Keep the pace, everyone!” I called out cheerily. “No slackers!” I looked pointedly at my victim, and he struggled to maintain the rapid pedaling pace.

I added more intensity to some of the already challenging elements of the simulated bike ride. “Be sure to work at your own level,” I encouraged, knowing full well that pride would keep him pushing himself hard. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt!” (“Or would we?” I thought maliciously to myself.) I flashed what I imagined was a sweet, benignly innocent smile at the man. He didn’t see it because his head was hanging, and he was toiling with obvious strain and exertion.

I was relentless. Even though it was the first day back after a long break, I subjected the whole class to a grueling regimen of exhausting accelerations, laborious hill climbs, strenuous sprints, and lengthy out-of-the saddle intervals.

He didn’t stay for the whole class. Red-faced and perspiration-soaked, the man put his bike away before I could subject him to the last 15 minutes of killer abdominal exercises. But, on his way out, he thanked me. Hmmm. Maybe I’m not such a bad character after all if the victim of my sweet revenge is grateful for the experience.

Many Miles in Moscow

2007-08-23T19:37:00.000-07:00

While we were on our European vacation, we covered a lot of country in the tube, on buses, and on trains. We also walked a lot of miles. I wore my pedometer faithfully, and recorded the steps for each day. Even on our “lightest” day, a Sunday when we attended Church, we walked over 6 miles.

The most we walked was in Moscow on July 30^th when we pitter-pattered 31,399 steps. That’s over 15 miles. On that particular day, we went to a flea market, several parks, churches, a palace, and a Soviet era Expo. Many of the pictures in this blog are of the exposition buildings which are grand and elaborate, and extol the accomplishments of the Soviet Union.

After touring the expo, my son pointed out a very large tower in the distance, which he had heard was the second tallest free-standing structure in the world. He wanted to ride to the top.
It didn’t look to be as far away as it turned out to be. We walked over an hour to reach the tower, only to learn that public tours and rides to the top were no longer available. Disappointed and tired, we tried to figure out where we were. My son was sure a metro stop couldn’t be far away.

We walked probably 4 or 5 more miles through some sketchy neighborhoods and business areas before we found one. We rode back to Mendelevskaya Station our stop,(note the décor of that metro stop, and perhaps you can figure out for whom it is named) and trudged the additional mile to our apartment. My son made us dinner: pelmeni and cheesy bread, watermelon and ice cream. Traditional, tasty, and terrific to renew our energy after walking our many miles in Moscow.

Cats and Dogs

2007-08-19T21:04:00.000-07:00

We didn’t see too many animals while in mainland Europe. Our bed and breakfast landlady in Paris had a small dog, and a cat named Lily that wanted to sleep with us in our bed, because we gathered, it was really her bed.

In Rome we were intrigued by one specific ruin in the center of the city which was home to many wild cats. A posted sign detailed the humane, but not totally effective, efforts to control the cat population there. Click on the picture to enlarge it, and look carefully to find a few felines.

In Russia, there were quite a few wild dogs running around, often in packs of three or four. It was one such dog that threatened my Key Limey. The dog first snarled and charged toward my son and me, who were walking a short distance ahead of KL. We quickly moved away in another direction, and avoided eye contact. KL however, stopped and faced the dog, which apparently viewed this as a direct challenge. True to Russian form, this dog would not back down, or turn tail and flee the fight. Instead, the animal lunged forward at KL.

He was a large, German Shepherd-mutt-mix, and he growled at my Key Limey and snapped at him from barely two feet away. He seemed fiercer and more threatening than our next door neighbors’ dogs, (the Hounds from Hell) particularly since there was no protective fence between him and KL.

“Walk away before he bites you!” I yelled out the obvious to my husband. “I’ve had too many dog bites from dogs I turned my back on,” he replied, warily trying to inch backward without further antagonizing the dog. They continued their cold war stare-down. After a few tense moments, the dog gave one last alpha male snarl and turned away triumphantly when my husband had retreated back far enough to be out of his territory. Crisis averted.

I wanted to pet a dog I saw in the Russian metro station when I saw everyone else doing it. My son had pointed out a bronze statue of a hunter and his dog. The nose and the leg of the dog were smooth, and shiny, worn down by the constant caressing of passers-by who apparently stroke the dog for good luck. Simple enough, and maybe it works!

Cuckoo

2007-08-15T21:12:00.000-07:00

My Bavarian clock finally arrived, and I coaxed KL into unpacking and assembling it. He asked me where I wanted to hang it, and suggested my office. “Well, maybe I should put it someplace where everyone can enjoy it,” I said. So first I thought I’d put it in the kitchen, but there wasn’t a wall that could accommodate the long chains. The dining room, or a spot at the top of the stairs had possibilities, but it seemed a cuckoo clock placed there might compete with the grandfather clock. Downstairs—definitely out of the question.

“The sunroom?” my son suggested. “No…not the right feel…” I shook my head. “Maybe my office.” My husband, with polite exasperation, commented that that was where he had proposed to put it in the first place.

Once in my office, the choices and decisions began anew. On the window wall, or by the pictures on the west wall? How high? Was it centered? “This is worse than rearranging furniture,” my husband muttered, as I finally approved the drill hole mark.

Although I nearly drove my Key Limey cuckoo in the process, my clock now elegantly graces my office wall. Its delicate edelweiss and gentian flowers remind me of the lovely German countryside that we thoroughly enjoyed on our trip.

Water

2007-08-13T19:00:00.000-07:00

We learned very quickly in Europe that water is hard to come by. Drinking fountains in public places do not exist. Bottled water is expensive and is often carbonated, and warm. It rankled me that water was not offered with meals at restaurants, and that we had to pay over four euros ($5.50) for a carafe of plain ole H20.

So we bought acqua at outrageous “captive tourist” prices, until we finally got smart and saved the plastic bottles. We filled them at our apartment, and carried them during the day in a very conspicuous purple bag, a gift given to us by our landlady, Sylvie, in Paris.

In Rome, when the temperatures were in the triple digits, we left the apartment one day carrying eight bottles of water between the two of us—including the liter bottle in the picture with my very thirsty Key Limey.

We drank all the water during our sweltering day at the Coliseum, Palatine Hill, and Roman Forum.

The Europeans seemed stingy with their drinking water, so I thought it was ironic to note the copious amounts of water used for flushing toilets. Seems to me there could be a trade off: less water in the WC, and more accessible, potable water for drinking.

How I Broke the Bank

2007-08-12T19:50:00.000-07:00

Obtaining money in Moscow seems fairly easy, on the surface. There are numerous businesses on every major downtown street which exchange rubles, euros, and dollars, and ATMs abound as well.

Upon our arrival in the city, we had no rubles with which to pay our landlord, Viktor, for the apartment (picture is of the exterior) we had rented. Viktor spoke very little English, but agreed to take us to a nearby bank to withdraw some cash to pay him for our lodging. We timidly followed him through a maze of apartment buildings in our square, and across some streets. He pointed to various buildings and identified them in Russian, giving us the grand tour, I suppose. We politely nodded and smiled although we had no clue what he was saying.

At the ATM, I inserted my debit card, and followed the instructions on the screen, which thankfully had an English option. I was frustrated, but not surprised, when the screen flashed with the message that my card was not valid. We’d had trouble with this card previously. A couple of other customers had entered the small foyer, and were waiting in line behind me to use the machine.

I thought I could quickly use a different card. After inserting the second card, I instantly knew something was wrong when I heard a strange whirring noise which did not stop. I tried to press “Cancel” on the screen, but it was frozen. I pressed all the buttons to no avail, while the whirring noise continued.

I looked back helplessly at Viktor and my husband who were standing to the back of the vestibule. “It’s not working,” I mouthed desperately to my husband. He came over, and had no luck getting the machine to emit cash or card. Then Viktor came forward to see what the problem was. “It’s not working!” I repeated, and Viktor understood. He went inside the bank to get help.

The customers in line in back of me began to get restless. I tried smiling apologetically, but there was no sympathy in return. The machine kept whirring. In my head I rehearsed a Russian term, “izvineetye” (excuse me), hoping to prevent hostility. Just then Viktor came back with a large, stern woman. She did not speak to me, but her look was not pleasant. She used a key to open up the front of the machine, and we could see my card sliding in and out, making the whirring noise.

The woman tried to grab my card, and nearly had her fingers sucked back into the machine with it. She was not happy. She fired off some angry Russian to Viktor, who responded slowly, and I hope, in my defense. The woman stalked into the bank, and returned with a man who turned the machine completely off. The woman retrieved my card and glowered at all of us standing around watching the rescue operation. She held up the card and asked a question which I intuitively knew that answering might mean some sort of jail time for me.

I grabbed my card with a whispered “spasiba” and made a dash for the door, leaving Viktor to give some sort of explanation. I heard the woman say something to the other customers that resulted in their response with something akin to hisses and boos. I realized they would not be getting their money either.

Fortunately, the bank employee did not give us any further hassle, and none of the irate customers bothered us either. Viktor took us to another of the plentiful ATMs, and we quickly and easily procured our rubles, and paid him. He was happy, and we were relieved.

After that incident, we let our Russian-speaking and Russian-savvy son handle our money matters.

It Was All Good

2007-08-05T20:34:00.000-07:00

We’re back! We survived two grueling trans-Atlantic flights, lousy exchange rates, hostile subway riders, expensive yet unsanitary WCs, exhausting sightseeing, unrelenting street vendors, one faulty voltage converter, several close calls crossing busy streets, an Italian brouhaha on a late-night bus, borsch, a non-functioning debit card, a dearth of potable water, one very big pinkie toe blister, night trains with no morning shower, helplessness due to language deficiencies, one extremely bossy landlady, miles of walking with our carry-on backpacks, phone card frustrations, two or three dousing thunderstorms, a wild dog attack, the long line to see Lenin, downgraded accommodations, blistering 102 degree heat, walking the perimeter of an entire country in blistering 102 degree heat, getting hopelessly lost several times, intimidating Russian reprimands for (among other things) breaking an ATM, a German laundromat, a bawdy and unseemly bike tour guide, losing and finding an indispensable sweater, dozens of mispronounced and misunderstood words, a camera battery that needed constant recharging, being together 24-7 for nearly three weeks…………………………………

………………..AND WE LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT!!!

Demure

2007-07-14T09:25:00.000-07:00

In just a few short hours I will leave on my European vacation. I’m exhausted, but excited, and I think I am ready.

I’ve paid my bills and stopped my mail. I’ve charged my camera battery and inserted a 2-gig card for the numerous pictures I hope to take. I have my money belt packed with the British pounds I’ll need for our first stop in London. I’ve checked the weather forecasts for all the cities we’ll visit, and have learned that it will rain only half the time. Nevertheless, I’ve packed my sunglasses, sunscreen, and swimsuit.

I’ve pasted on my most demure American smile, designed to assure the Europeans that I am not an ugly American, in any sense of the word. I’m prepared to wear a skirt while in the Vatican, and a shawl on my head in a Moscow cathedral. I’ve learned how to say “excuse me” in four different languages, with appropriate tone and gestures, so that I can apologize for my unintentional blunders.

I eagerly anticipate acquiring lasting memories, impressions, skills, knowledge, and even friendships. Let the adventure begin!

Absolutely Terrifying Voyage

2007-07-13T14:48:00.000-07:00

”Would you like a ride to our condo, Aunt C?” My niece, Bonnie, sweet, and friendly, invited me onto the back of her ATV. I agreed readily, as I was without a vehicle at my family reunion, and the mile and a half walk in the 95 degree heat did not appeal to me.

I clambered onto the back of the big machine. “Is this really safe?” I questioned. “How do I hold on? Shouldn’t I be wearing a helmet?” My niece handed me a bike helmet, which I promptly put on backward, causing the other drivers and riders to smirk and stifle chuckles.

Helmet righted, I grabbed the back metal rack as Bonnie popped the clutch and jerked forward with an unexpected jolt. That should have been my first warning of the wild ride ahead. When we turned left instead of right on the main road, I innocently asked Bonnie where we were going. “I don’t know what he’s doing,” she answered, referring to her husband, who was the lead driver in our 4-wheeler triple train.

What he was doing, was leading us down, or rather, up, the primrose, or rather, sagebrush, path, on the most harrowing ride of my life. Bonnie’s husband abruptly turned onto one of the steep off-road trails. “I didn’t bargain for this!” I nervously shouted to Bonnie, as we jack-rabbitted forward and upward and around a curve. She giggled unperturbedly, and answered, “Oh, it will be fun! Just hang on!”

Easier said than done. My fingers clutched the back rack in a vise grip, but I felt like a rag doll that might be tossed off into the brush at any second by the machine’s jerking and lurching. Bonnie had no fear. She gunned around corners, and sped even faster on the infrequent and short straight-aways. She did slow down on one curve when it seemed to me that we were balancing sideways on only the two left wheels, and perilously close to rolling. I gasped, and swallowed hard as we miraculously landed on all fours and zoomed ahead to an interminable host of hazards.

I was absolutely terrified. I really thought I might die, or at least break most of the bones in my body when the ATV landed on me, as I knew it must surely do—if not from tipping over on its side, then from back flipping end over end. I tried breathing deeply to calm myself. I choked a mouthful of dust. I tried shutting my eyes. That only compounded the terror as I couldn’t see the obstacles ahead and prepare myself for the jarring impacts. I tried engaging in light banter with Bonnie in a show of bravado. But she kept turning her head to answer me, and I was mortified that she might miss a curve when she wasn’t looking forward.

When would this nightmare end? The sagebrush scraped my bare legs as we jounced along the trail, which consisted of a much-too-narrow alpine slide-like trough full of large dirt speed bumps, all of which were totally ignored. Bonnie was the lone female driver, and seemed determined to keep right on the (w)heels of her brother just ahead. I cringed when we narrowly avoided a rear-ender. Was there no “one ATV length for every 5 miles of speed” rule on this voyage?

Mercifully we reached the apex of the trail and stopped for a moment before turning around. Unflappable as ever, Bonnie asked if I wanted to drive. “No, thanks,” I replied, thinking I didn’t want to ride either. “I want to live to be 50.”

Descending the trail was as frightening as going up, with more horrifying visions of the ATV somersaulting end-over-end down the trail like a wind-blown tumbleweed. Still, it seemed to take less time than on the way up the trail, and suddenly the bouncing and wrenching stopped as we hit a flat gravel road. Somewhere after that, when the gravel turned to pavement, I finally ceased thinking of my funeral.

I don’t think I’ll be getting back on an ATV again soon. If I feel the urge for a wild ride, I’ll just take a cab when I’m in Rome or Paris.

It's in the Bag

2007-07-03T21:04:00.000-07:00

The prelude to our European extravaganza continues. My Key Limey and I decided that part of the adventure would be the challenge of packing all of the stuff we’d need for the three week excursion into carry-on bags so we wouldn’t have the hassles of checked luggage. I looked up the size regulations for carry-ons: 22" x 14" x 9". Not so big. I searched online and found some bags that were designed just for this purpose. They even have backpack straps that tuck away into a pocket, but can be pulled out for "beast of burden" toting.

I decided to give my bag a trial run on my family reunion trip this week. I am amazed at all the belongings I’ve been able to orderly pack into my little black bag, which has several zippered pockets and compartments, and high visibility orange interiors to make finding stuff easier. The only thing I didn’t fit into my bag were my running shoes, and maybe I could do it if I really tried.

Here’s the short list of stuff I have in my bag:

One pair of pants
One pair of shorts
Five shirts
One skirt
One sweater
One swimsuit
One hat
Six pairs of socks
Underclothing (for 6 days)
Two complete running outfits
Two pair of sandals
A travel hair dryer and a curling iron
Toiletries (in a quart-size bag, and easily retrieved for security checks at the airport)
One Boy Scout sash and numerous merit badges to be sewn on (I promised Big Guy I’d do it, and unlike the Boy Scout motto, I was not prepared, and left it to the last minute, so I have to do it on this trip)
One gift bag and birthday present (which I will not identify as the recipient may read this, and it’s a surprise.... but the present is not exactly small)

So far, so good. I’m managing just fine. Now, I just hope that, on the big trip, as I totter down airplane or train aisles with my little black bag on my back, that I’m not thrown off balance. Though little, the black bag is heavier than it looks!

Sign Here to Support Women's Health

2007-06-25T15:34:00.000-07:00

For those of you who weren’t aware of it, Wal-Mart is very concerned about women and their health. To prove it, they hosted a Women’s Health Awareness Day last Saturday at our local store. They gave away free samples of various products, with the full-sized versions conveniently and prominently displayed nearby, obviously for our shopping convenience, because of course, they are not first and foremost interested in their bottom line, but in ours…or uh, make that, our health.

I was there to hand out flyers and answer questions on YMCA programs that promote women’s health. I had been given only a few instructions; I knew that my contact person’s name was Jan, and that I didn’t have to stay the entire six hours of the event.

When I arrived, no one seemed to be in charge, and the only Jan there was an equally uninformed volunteer from the community college who was assembling an informational table also. The in-store vision clinic set me up with a card table, chair and a plastic tablecloth next to Jan, the college lady. The Wal-Mart sample distributors gave me a large yellow poster for people to sign as they stopped at my table.

It seemed to be some sort of unspoken competition to see who could gather the most signatures on her poster. Signatures could only be obtained if someone stopped at the table. And people weren’t stopping at mine.

Maybe the reason was because every table but mine offered free samples. Wal-Mart employees were passing out samples of wrinkle-reducing face cream, hand lotion, pain reliever, shampoo, conditioner, and even energy bars. What more could you ask for if you were a woman interested in good health?? And Jan, the college lady, was handing out pens, toothpaste, stress balls, and flip-top calculators right next to me. My shabby fare consisted of flyers describing Y classes and schedules. At least they are on colored paper, I lamely noted.

I soon began trying to garner signatures with the lure of a “free class”. I handed people a (free) flyer about a wonderful, (and truly free) class that we offer at the Y for people who are trying to get back into an exercise routine. I had a few takers, but my yellow poster still lacked a respectable number of signatures.

Then the Wal-Mart lady from the Garnier sample table came over. “Can one of you ladies take over my display while I go on break? One of you can handle both your tables, can’t you?” Jan, as nice as she was, did not volunteer. Who was I to deny Gloria her break?

I guess I could have sabotaged Gloria while I handed out samples at her table. But instead, I helped fill up her poster while mine languished in obscurity with the paltry signatures I had acquired earlier. I don’t think anyone signed my poster while I was away. And when I returned to my place after Gloria’s break, I saw that people stopping at Jan’s table next door were being encouraged to “write small, because we’re almost full.”

Three hours later, I decided I’d had enough table tending. Regrettably, there had been few people who showed interest in my YMCA programs. I had the least number of people sign my poster. And I got a paper cut while handling my flyers. I packed up, and turned in my signature poster to one of the Wal-Mart employees. He accepted it with a pitying smile, and folded it up with the signatures out of sight.

I took one of Gloria’s pain reliever samples and one of Jan's stress balls, and went home. At least I have my health. And since I've got that, I don't really need to worry about signature posters.

Trust

2007-06-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

Securing lodging in Europe for our trip next month has become a lengthy, and somewhat tedious process. I have been trying to make reservations on my own, and am quite frazzled with all the details that are making the experience stressful rather that an exciting, anticipatory activity.

There are many websites offering bed and breakfast accommodations, and my Key Limey and I decided that staying in such places would increase our cultural awareness. The websites advertising the rooms require a deposit. They all have the assuring lock icon in my taskbar, but can I trust any of them? Can I believe the glowing descriptions of a "lovely decorated room with private bath, and secluded garden"?

I realized that the potential hosts were feeling the same trepidation about me. Our reservation in Paris required us to send a bank transfer of half the total room fee in advance, and to assume all the bank charges associated with it. When I balked and complained that the transfer fee was more than the money to be sent, I was told by the reservation agent that my host had agreed to allow me to pay the balance on arrival, and dispense with the bank transfer.

The agent went on to explain (her words): “However, the reason some owners ask for such a payment is that in the event a client cancels a booking at short notice the owner has some money for the reservation – so the owner wants me to say, please don’t cancel your booking! :)” I guess they are as suspicious of me as I am of them.

We obtained rooms in Paris and Rome with only a few glitches. But Munich has been a problem from the outset. First of all, I did not realize that the airport is about 40 miles away from the city center where we want to be, and our plane leaves at 6:30 AM. We had planned to take the train to the airport, but a potential host informed us, (his words) “Wow. But it should be feasible. The first subway departs 4:12 and will take 1:05 hour to the airport. It arrives there at 5:17. This should be sufficient for this early time.” That sounded a little sketchy so I began looking for a motel close to the airport.

I located several, and also found a private shuttle that was advertised for about 40 euros that could transport us to the airport for our early flight. But then I read the fine print. The advertised price “might vary, according to the date.” And according to the date I needed it, it was going to cost almost $200 to get to the airport! I think we would sleep in the terminal before paying for that pricey trip.

Although I am still worried about not having reservations in Munich, I was feeling good about our stay in Rome with Nelly, who has two little dogs, and has solicitously emailed us twice, asking about our arrival time and other arrangements. But now I’m starting to feel suspicious and untrusting again.

Maybe there really is no reassuringly polite Nona Nelly with two cute little dogs, a sweet grandmother who wants to share her rich and fascinating culture, and her meticulous dining room, with us. What if, like those credit card commercials, Nelly is really “Nero”, and wears wife beater tanks and spends his days playing Bocce and laughing with his pals about the latest American tourist (me) he’s ripped off in a bed and breakfast scam?!

And don’t even get me started on my worries about night train travel…

My Assessment

2007-06-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

I spent the last week in an arduous, week-long certification course for fitness testing and assessments. I had taken this course five years ago as the launch pad of my YMCA career, but this time I was one of four lab leaders directing participants through their practical tests.

This year’s training attracted 17 women, although the course is not limited to females. The lab leaders wondered if an all-female group would be so hormone-heavy as to cause problems. We were pleasantly surprised at the scarcity of tears (although there were some) and the nearly total absence of bickering or cattiness (maybe there was some of that going on back at the motel that we didn’t know about!)

The women made their way through a variety of emotions ranging from confidence to doubt, despair to giddiness, and frustration to pride. I was amazed that some of them handled the stress and pressure of the 14-hour days with poise and calm, and I sympathized with those who were nervous wrecks from the first practical exercise on.

At the end of the first night’s lab, it was clear that my lab group was the remedial group. My four 40-and 50-something women took longer to catch on to everything. It was true that some of them lacked the practical experience obviously apparent in other participants, but even when the complicated concepts and skills were explained in simpler terms, my ladies required much time and repetition to grasp them. I did my best to encourage and motivate them, and they responded with an enthusiastic group huddle and a “senior moment” cheer.

We had to laugh at our miscues, missteps, and bumbling mistakes during the week. We giggled, when, in a practical test, Dawn explained that body fat percentage could be used to predict a target heart weight (you’ve heard of heavy hands? how about a heavy heart?!) It was comic relief when Barb began wiggling and gyrating in a spontaneous belly dance to the monotonous beat while calibrating her metronome. And although it wasn’t funny at the time, we later laughed at the moment when Annie, while measuring heart rate response, did not notice she was holding her stopwatch backward in her hand, and pressed the clear button, instead of the start/stop button, and totally ruined her test.

By the end of the week, my group was hopelessly mired in a bog of failed practicals. The other groups were smugly finished with their practical exams, and were studying for their written test. My group kept struggling, kept re-testing, and unfortunately, kept failing. They were discouraged, fatigued, and very stressed.

I wish that I could report that in spite of all the anxiety and disappointments, my whole group pulled through, and each of the ladies passed the course. But I cannot. Only two of them managed to successfully complete the battery of practical exams and the written test. I felt bad about that.

But what I did feel good about was their spirit. I was inspired by the way these women supported and helped each other, even when it would have been easy to give up. They uplifted and comforted each other. They became friends despite diverse backgrounds and personalities. They were united in their desire and perseverance. And even when faced with the realization that they might not achieve their certification, these women held their heads high and were proud of what they did accomplish. And in the long run, I couldn’t have asked any more of them than that.

Twenty Packs a Year Too Many

2007-06-03T13:29:00.001-07:00

This attention-catching display is sitting at the entrance to the Daycare at the YMCA where I work. The American Lung Association says that secondhand smoke contains more than 250 chemicals known to be toxic or cancer causing. Children exposed to secondhand smoke often have decreased lung function, and they are more likely to suffer from bouts of coughing and wheezing, phlegm buildup, and breathlessness. Secondhand smoke causes increased incidence of pneumonia, bronchitis, asthma, and ear infections in infants and children. It is believed to have a connection to sudden infant death syndrome.

These are a few of the facts about secondhand smoke. To me, the picture makes a statement as clearly and vividly as a recitation of the facts.

State Scholar

2007-05-28T21:08:00.000-07:00

Another graduation, another “proud mother” moment. Big Guy graduated from high school yesterday, in a traditional, and typical ceremony held in the filled-to-capacity school gym. The speakers delivered the usual accolades, advice and encouragement. Once they were done, in a slightly rebellious or adventurous spirit, the students raucously batted about beach balls, and even a 5-foot blow-up blue whale, as the graduates began receiving their diplomas.

Big Guy was one of 14 students who wore a gold medallion around their necks, in addition to their gold sashes, and Honor Society cords. When he had brought home the medallion as part of his graduation garb, I had asked him what it was. “I’m supposed to wear that because I’m a Wyoming State Scholar.” That sounded impressive, so I asked what he had done to qualify for the award. He didn’t know.

So I did a little investigative work, and learned all about the State Scholar Initiative. Our state is one of twenty-four states implementing the program, which encourages high school students to better prepare themselves for success in post-secondary education and careers by completing a rigorous course of study.

The State Scholars curriculum – which is patterned after the recommendations of the National Commission on Excellence in Education – recommends four years of English, three of math, three of lab science, three and a half of social studies, and two of a language other than English.

Big Guy had not set out to achieve this award, but had taken qualifying classes because of interest, ability, and a desire to prepare for college. I suppose it is to his credit that he fulfilled the requirements because of personal ambition rather than because he knew about or coveted the award. In any case, no doubt his college coursework will be enhanced because of his high school preparation.

Big Guy, congratulations on your graduation. You are a gentleman and a scholar.

"It's Not Easy Being Green"

2007-05-22T16:15:00.000-07:00

My Key Limey received a bill from the hospital the other day, informing him that his insurance company had been billed for services rendered on May 7, 2007. As he had not been even near the hospital that day, we were more than a little disconcerted see that the mysterious services amounted to $10,987.56. The next day KL cleared up the obvious error with the hospital. But that’s not the first time he’s suffered a case of mistaken identity.

Many years ago in college, he once received a C in a class that we took together, and for which I received an A. Even in my smug sympathy, I felt something was just not quite right. We’d received high marks on a project we’d done together which was half the grade, and he had done well on other assignments. He contacted the teacher for further explanation, and they discovered that KL’s grade had been transposed with another student who had the exact same name—first, middle, and last.

His common name commonly produces wrong number phone calls. “Are you the [Key Limey] who sells tropical fish?” “Is this the residence of [Key Limey] from Wichita?” “I’m looking for the [Key Limey] who collects rare coins.” When it is a legitimate caller looking for the [Key Limey] who is a lawyer, I evaluate the level of animosity in the voice, and consider prevaricating (“lying” sounds so harsh) that the caller has a wrong number.

But the funniest, and yet possibly the most serious, case of mistaken identity, is with a fellow named Jasper with the same last name. Apparently Jasper, who owes thousands of dollars in back child support in California, lives right here at our address, or at least he has told someone that he does. We have received quite a few demands for payment from the sate of California for his four children. My Key Limey made some calls to sort that one out as well. Since then, we still receive the occasional credit card offer addressed to Jasper. Recently we received some spam email from one Jasper Same-Last-Name, as follows:

Our company has confirmed your draft and have the specific proposals relative to your needs.

Take assistance of our proposition now, before it is unavailable.

Goodbye,
Jasper [Same-Last-Name]

I’m sure you all are familiar with that type of spam. I thought it was a humorous coincidence that it came to us from someone with the same name (and probably contrived, at that) as our deadbeat dad Jasper. I guess he’s selling insurance now.

Fortunately my Key Limey hasn’t been the tragic victim of true identity theft. These incidents have been minor inconveniences. Still, as Kermit says, “It’s not easy being green.” Or Smith, or Jones, or Wilson.

Distinguished

2007-05-17T21:01:00.000-07:00

Examine the picture closely. Who is that notable person with Big Guy and KL (Key Limey)? He is prominent and prestigious, and is renown for his intellect.

My menfolk were duly impressed with this visiting dignitary's speech. My son, the new Juris Doctor-New Dad, was extremely jealous of his brother's and father's rare opportunity to hear the remarks.

Meanwhile, I was teaching a Pilates class. Maybe someday I'll develop political inclinations.

Legal Circles

2007-05-14T18:34:00.000-07:00

My son, the new dad, has a new title—Juris Doctor. It has been a long, and eventful three years since he began law school, but three days ago he received the law diploma that marks the beginning of a new career.

With great ceremony, the 125 graduates formally paraded into the theatre to the strains of Pomp and Circumstance played by an elegant string trio. We eagerly looked for our Juris Doctor, decked out in a somber black robe, emblazoned with red Ute stripes (you would have loved it, DeDee), and the obligatory doctorate hood, lined with rich purple velvet. And suddenly he appeared in the aisle. He was readily distinguishable, because he wore no cap. I wondered if this was some sort of brazen iconoclastic gesture to mock the ceremonial and stuffy nature of the graduation exercises, but later he vigorously asserted that his scalp was merely itchy, so he removed the aggravating mortarboard.

There were several awards and short speeches, and a keynote address by a South African judge who basically lambasted America’s foreign policy, after which the audience clapped. At that point, maybe the law school’s moot court participants should have been invited on stage for a rebuttal. Quite possibly, though, most of us were too interested in the next order of business, the confirmation of degrees, to really give Judge Goldstone’s diatribe a second thought.

We didn’t have to wait long. There was our Juris Doctor-New Dad, complete with cap, shaking the Law School dean’s hand while clutching the hard-earned diploma, and smiling for the camera. I resisted the urge to cheer wildly, because I was holding his sleeping daughter, The Little Princess, in my lap. But I was very proud.

Twenty-six years ago, my Key Limey graduated from law school when this son was about a year older than his daughter is now. It is a legal circle that has come full circle.

My Key Limey

2007-05-04T07:11:00.000-07:00

My husband likes to watch cooking shows. I will catch him quite often staring adoringly at Julia Child reruns as she whips up an ostrich egg omelette souffl'ee or some such delicacy. He also likes Lidia's Italian-American Kitchen, Paula Deen Down-Home Southern Cooking, and Yan Can Cook. But a true cooking show connoisseur, he also has dislikes, and disdains BBQ with Bobby Flay and Emeril Live (BAM!)

Despite all of his culinary education, and my lack thereof, I prepare most of the meals for the family. Still, there are a couple of recipes my husband makes occasionally that I cheerfully encourage and gladly consume.

One of these is key lime pie. I don’t know what master chef I have to thank for my husband’s enthusiasm for preparing this dessert, but I am grateful. In the last two or three months, he has probably made about 6 fresh, and very delicious, key lime pies.

Incredibly, the man grows his own limes! Actually, he harvests only seven or eight limes a year from his small lime tree, so he does have to supplement with store produce. He meticulously squeezes the juice and grates the peel. He lovingly mixes all the ingredients, bakes and cools the delectable dessert. We savor each blissful bite.

This last time he proudly displayed his latest masterpiece complete with meringue topping. “I just learned how easy it was to do that on Paula Deen’s show!” he beamed with pride. I’m perfectly content with my Key Limey’s little hobby of making pie, as it is satisfying for both of us. He takes pleasure in preparing it, and I take pleasure in partaking of it.

Roses

2007-04-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

Finally it seems that spring may be here. Along with the urge to plant some flowers, we should all take the time to stop and smell the roses.

Sometimes we are so busy with all the things that we think are so necessary, that we don’t necessarily think about some things that we should never be too busy for. These things are roses in our lives that we should not neglect or ignore.

So take the time to read an inspiring book, take a long, leisurely walk, play a game with your family, receive soul-soothing pleasure in the beauty of a sunrise or sunset, laugh with a friend, and meditate on the meaning of the flag, as it flutters in the breeze. Smile. Eat an ice cream cone. Hug a baby. Sit in the grass barefoot and wiggle your toes. Dance as you make dinner. Smell a rose.

We should be diligent in accomplishing all of the needful things of life, but we should not become so stressed or busy that we fail to find simple joy in our lives. This, too, is needful.

“And see that all these things are done in wisdom and order; for it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength…..” (Mosiah 4:27)

Take time to stop and smell the roses!

Hands

2007-04-22T17:36:00.000-07:00

Many years ago Big Guy made a present for me in his Church nursery class. It consisted of the following poem pasted on a paper plate under which were his handprints in poster paint:

Sometimes you get discouraged,

Because I am so small

And always leave my fingerprints

On furniture and walls.

 But every day I'm growing.

 I'll be grown some day

 And all those tiny handprints

 Will surely fade away.


 So here's a little handprint,

 Just so you can recall

 Exactly how my fingers looked

 When I was very small.

Big Guy's chubby toddler hands have grown into man hands and fingers that stretch a full octave, and two keys more, on the piano keyboard. A week ago he performed in his Senior recital. Although I've attended many recitals, I don't think I've ever been able to clearly see his hands like I could this time. I was fascinated and awed by the intricate fingering and powerful movement up and down the keyboard as he played DeBussy and Rachmaninof. He was dramatic, yet controlled. Poignant, yet precise. Those hands, once very small, were masterful.

You deserve a big hand, Big Guy. Thanks for sharing your splendid talent with us.

"Never Send to Know for Whom the Bell Tolls"

2007-04-18T21:39:00.000-07:00

This morning I watched a portion of a television program that focused on the Virginia Tech tragedy. I became uncomfortably aware that my reaction to this horrific event was not as I thought it should be. Truly I felt sympathy and sorrow for the victims, and their grieving families. Yet I thought my emotion should be more poignant and piercing. I should have felt more.

I recall the distress and anxiety I felt as I watched the reports of the Columbine shootings a few years ago. I felt helpless, and a little hopeless. I was glued to the TV to hear the latest news or analysis of the situation. It bothered me for quite some time. I wanted to make sense of it, and that was not possible.

I’ve tried to figure out why I haven’t reacted as strongly, or as viscerally, to the Virginia Tech incident. Are we inured to the violence, and not easily shocked anymore? Are appalling incidents like this now something to be expected and accepted as part of life in this day and age? Do we protectively cocoon ourselves and our emotions because feeling the magnitude of such senselessly tragic events is too painful and enervating?

I’m still struggling. I should feel more.

Big Guy and The Little Princess

2007-04-12T21:04:00.000-07:00

The week in Utah was wonderful. Yes, there were some exhausting nights, but there were some delightful days. Annachka (my son’s diminutive for his daughter) is a sweet baby who does have her fussy moments, but is a joy nonetheless. It was a pleasure to take care of her.

Many family members gathered for her blessing on Easter Sunday, and that was a special occasion. How thrilling and gratifying it was to see my son, the father, assume his parental and religious duties with humble aplomb.

We all took turns doting on The Little Princess. Even Big Guy took his turn feeding her.As I watched him holding her, I was struck with one of those epiphanic moments. Family is what matters. Families can be forever.

It's AMAZING!

2007-04-01T20:12:00.000-07:00

I am not only amazed, I’m flabbergasted, elated, shocked, overjoyed, excited, nervous, and nearly speechless! Wouldn’t you feel that way, if you’d received a call informing you that—drum roll—you’d been selected as a finalist for “The Amazing Race”?!

Just think—traveling to exotic international destinations! Testing mental mettle and physical aptitude against other contestants in fierce competition! Jumping onto the mat at the pit stop in first place and giving Phil a high five and a hug! And possibly, the chance to win a million bucks!! Wahoooo!

I’m off to SLC tomorrow! Wish me luck!

"Moisture"

2007-03-30T09:43:00.000-07:00

Snow Job

2007-03-29T21:58:00.000-07:00

I awoke this morning to hear the radio announcer list the closures due to blizzard conditions—the public schools, the courthouse, city hall….and the YMCA. No work! I snuggled back into my covers for a satisfying reprieve. An hour later, I finally rolled out of bed, and contemplated my day. It was much too snowy to run outside, so I decided to do a BOSU workout after I shoveled some of the driveway.

I was astonished at the amount of snow—probably close to two feet where it had drifted. My husband and I took turns with our one very heavy metal shovel (it seems our second newer and lighter snow shovel sprouted legs and walked off some sunny day in the last few weeks.) The snow kept coming down, and the wind kept blowing more snow onto my previously cleared path. When half of the driveway was somewhat clear, my husband ventured out to town in search of another shovel, which it had become obvious we would need.

Back in the house, I puttered about and made some phone calls, putting off the BOSU workout. When I looked out an hour later, the driveway was covered again! I went back out and attacked the new drifts. My husband returned with two shovels (after going to three stores), the price of which I’m afraid to ask. We continued shoveling, making only a little progress, as the snow kept falling.

Two hours later, I convinced Big Guy to help me battle the forces of nature. By this time, BOSU was out of the question. I could see that shoveling snow would be my never-ending workout today. Big Guy and I went over to a single friend’s house to see if she needed some help. Apparently she had gone to work, and now there was a 4-foot drift in her driveway where her truck had been. That mound was quite demanding on the deltoids, but we attacked it vigorously and completed the job. We trekked back home, only to find our driveway blanketed with another two inches of the heavy wet stuff.

And so the day went. We did a couple more “maintenance runs” on the driveway. We’ve given up on the sidewalk. It drifts so badly, it’s not worth the effort. This is definitely one of the top three snowstorms I’ve experienced in the twenty-five years I’ve lived here. The forecast is for another 6 inches of snow, along with wind, tonight, and we’ve heard the schools are closed again tomorrow. I suppose Big Guy and I will be working out together again tomorrow.

Pictures to follow.

Dr. Coburn Goes to Washington

2007-03-26T20:55:00.000-07:00

I don’t consider myself to be very politically involved, probably due to a lack of interest, or laziness, or both. However, I recently heard of a United States senator who impressed me.

Tom Coburn is a physician, and the junior Republican senator from Oklahoma. (He was actually born in Casper, Wyoming—interesting.) From reports I’ve read, he is a politician with integrity. (Apparently that just might not be a contradiction in terms.) Coburn was first elected to the House of Representatives in 1994, and re-elected for two terms, after which he did not run, keeping his promise to only serve three terms. That move right there earns respect in my book.

Coburn won a Senate seat in 2004, and has been a conservative voice in Washington. He doesn’t play by the “politics as usual” rules that we, the common voters, have come to expect, and in some ways, tacitly approve, by our apathy. He is one of seven Senators on the Fiscal Watch Team which identifies and decries government fiscal irresponsibility.

Coburn is a man with pure desires and goals--he says his work is to ensure that the government works efficiently and effectively. Coburn battles against pork barrel spending and earmarking in the federal budget, and he has introduced legislation to reduce overall federal government spending. On his website, he has a counter illustrating the magnitude of the national debt. It increases by thousands of dollars each second! Coburn doesn’t sponsor projects that will only benefit his state, or worry about taking credit for projects to insure his re-election. He genuinely seems to care about upholding the Constitution, and making the entire country a better place to live.

I was pleasantly surprised to read on his website that this last week he introduced the “Universal Health Care Choice and Access Act,” a comprehensive health care reform plan. Health insurance is an issue with which I’m dealing right now, and I generally agree with Coburn’s free market proposals to health care.

Dr. Coburn from Oklahoma, you’re OK by me.

Shooting Star

2007-03-22T21:45:00.000-07:00

I left my car at a windshield repair shop on my way to work this morning, and told the technician I could be back in about 3 hours.

He was very efficient and polite. “No problem. We’ll have your windshield chip repaired in about 45 minutes.” He sounded quite confident for having never even seen the damage.

Indeed, when I returned this afternoon, my car was parked in what was undoubtedly the “completed jobs” parking area. I went into the office to collect my key. As I was paying for the work, I noticed a big sign in the repair bay area, describing the types of chips, or dings: bullseye, star, half moon, and combination.

Trying to make pleasant conversation, and out of curiosity, I asked what type of chip my windshield had had. Mike was still very efficient and polite, although not overly congenial. “It was a star with two tails. That will be $47.70.”

Back in my car, I surveyed the work. I frowned a little as I noted that I could definitely still see where the chip had been. The original damage had been a mere ¼ inch or so big, and I had expected the repair to be less visible. It actually looked bigger than the original ding. In fact the blemish now looked more like a half-moon/star combination! And then I counted, not just two, but FIVE tails radiating out from the star!

I guess I’ll play the glad game. I’m glad that the chip is down low where it isn’t in my sightline, and I’m glad that the repair has a lifetime guarantee. I’ll just live with my 5-tailed shooting star.

I Found My Backbone in My Exercise Class

2007-03-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

Home party invitations invoke a sense of obligation and guilt in me. Over the years I’ve chafed at feeling obligated to attend home parties that offered everything from Tupperware to candles to stitchery kits. Avoiding guilt has frequently motivated me to agree to attend, and it has also invariably led me to buy items at the parties that I didn’t really need or want. I’ve been frustrated that I can’t stifle these feelings of obligation and guilt. Fortunately, the home party has almost disappeared due to the changing dynamics of our society. Or so I thought.

After a recent fitness class that I taught, one of the participants approached me. “I have a question,” she said, and smiled. I thought it would be about target heart rate zones or exercise intensity, which we had been talking about that day, and waited courteously for her to proceed.

“How would you like to be a model in my portfolio?” She was cheerful and positive, and didn’t even wait for me to answer. She continued, “I’ll work with you on your makeup, and then we’ll take a picture. You can use the photo for your business card—you have one, don’t you? And I can keep your picture in my portfolio. I don’t have a personal trainer in my portfolio yet—that would be great!”

I instantly smelled a rat…or a home party. A warning sign flashed in my brain as I recalled she was a representative for a cosmetics company. But I also felt those twinges of obligation welling up. This was a class member, after all. A person that I was supposed to nurture and encourage.

“Uh…what’s this for exactly, and how long would it take?” I was mentally kicking myself for starting to cave without any sort of fight.

As she described the “girly fun” we would have in our hour-long appointment to beautify me, I suddenly found my backbone. I confronted her as politely as possible, and smiled sweetly. “Is this session to introduce me to your products? I really don’t think I would be interested, thank you.” She persisted, but I resisted.

And she backed down! I escaped without committing to the session of cleansing, exfoliating, and freshening of the fine lines and pores of my aging skin. I suppose I could have used a makeover, but what if I’d then felt obligated to become a beauty consultant?! No, thank you. I don’t need, or want, a pink Cadillac.

Werewolf on Spring Break

2007-03-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

I often complain that my son spends too much time playing computer or video games. As his week-long spring break approached, I wondered how to effectively motivate him to do something more active and constructive. I needn’t have bothered. He and his friends had their own imaginative ideas.

For the last two nights, an animated and rowdy group of his friends have gang busted the house: a motley crew focused on one objective—to videotape the next great award-winning movie (or at least, a video worth posting on YouTube.) They were noisy, they were boisterous, and at times they were even unintentionally slightly destructive.

But I didn’t object. I was pleased that they were engaging in a creative large muscle motor activity. Although Big Guy didn’t officially announce that it was a “closed set”, I shied away from the action to give them some privacy. The edgy drama dragged on well into the late evening hours both nights, and at times, the shouting, pounding, slamming, laughing, running, jumping, and shrieking became tedious, but also aroused my curiosity.

I peeked in on some of the takes, but was not much closer to understanding the plot of their masterpiece than I had been when I was merely privy to the boisterous auditory clues. So here is my Balderdash version of what I think their movie might be about:

Armed only with stop signs and reflective vests, beefy construction workers come to the aid of a buxom lass in baby doll pajamas and houseshoes who has overdosed on Ecstasy after being accosted by a werewolf driving a white Ford truck.

Sound intriguing? I’ll let you know when it premieres on YouTube (or at the Sundance Festival in the Independent Film competition.)

Insured Poverty

2007-03-11T21:22:00.000-07:00

I guess I’m not done complaining yet. I’m upset that my health insurance premium is increasing—again. I am rankled by the arrogance of the company. Here is the explanation given for the increase:

“The vast majority of the premiums we collect are paid out in claims. Without a rate adjustment, sufficient revenue would not be available to cover contingency reserves and administrative expenses. Further, the rate of inflation in health care costs and utilization continues to rise at rates exceeding the average rate of inflation. When combined, these factors make it necessary to adjust the premium of our members.”

They paint themselves as benevolent and benign. I wonder if a healthy profit margin entered into their factoring. My outrageously high premiums and crippling deductibles cause me to more seriously consider support for a universal health plan. But for now, I’ll exercise my only free market trump card—I’ll find a different health insurance provider.

No Whining

2007-03-08T22:12:00.000-07:00

A few years ago my husband received a campaign-type button with a diagonal red line drawn through the word “WHINING”. As the father of four children, he thought it was an appropriate pin to wear, and with delight, would wordlessly, yet blatantly, put it on when he felt the children’s attitudes were questionable. One son in particular detested the appearance of that pin on his dad’s shirt.

Similarly, a Kansas City pastor said he got a bright idea for his church while he was in the shower. He asked his congregation to wear purple rubber bracelets as part of a campaign to eliminate complaints, criticism, gossip, and sarcasm. Those who wear the bracelet pledge to stop complaining for 21 days. When I initially heard the story, I thought it was an interesting proposal. Certainly the world would be a better place if all that negativity was neutralized.

I offhandedly wondered if I could adhere to a 3-week challenge of no complaints. “I don’t think it would be so hard to do,” I reasoned. “Basically, I’m fairly cheerful and positive anyway.”

But then I started to think of all the things about which I quite commonly whine. The neighbors’ dogs. The cold weather in the winter. The people who stand me up for appointments at work. The potholes in the neighborhood streets. My opponent’s illegal pickleball serve. The sunspots that cause static in the television picture when I’m trying to watch my favorite reality show. A slow computer or internet connection. Gray hairs, old eyes, creaky knees, and cellulite. The neighbors’ dogs.

I realized it feels quite comfortable to complain about these minor things. In fact, it feels good to do just a little venting. Maybe that’s why my son didn’t like to see his dad’s “No Whining” pin. It criticized one of his strategies for dealing with childhood frustrations.

Guess I won’t be slipping on a purple “Complaint Free” bracelet any time soon, nor receiving inspirational, world-changing ideas in the shower. In fact, if you’ve got a minute, let me tell you how annoyed I get with the miserable and uncomfortable showers I’m forced to take if I follow my teenage son’s interminably long showers after he’s all but drained the water heater, leaving his poor mother to shiver and shake under a nearly frigid spray…